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Harris 
Daughters  of  £v« 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FRANK  HARRIS 

Daughters  of  Eve 


Including  Frank  Harris 
SET  DO  WN  IN  MALICE 
By  Gerald   Cumberland 


1919 
PEARSON'S  (25c)  LIBRARY 


FRANK  HARRIS 

Daughters  of  Eve 


Including  Frank  Harris 
SET  DO  WN  IN  MALICE 
By  Gerald   Cumberland 


1919 
PEARSON'S  (25c)  LIBRARY 


Copyright,  11910 
by  Frank  Harris 


FRANK  HARRIS 

Set  Down  in  Malice 

By  Gerald  Cumberland 

CoTIeg:* 
Librazy 

PR      ■ 


Reprinted  from  his  latest  book  published  by 
Grant  Richards,  Lmtd. 

London 


l06J3'7t 


Frank  Hakkik 


IT  MUST  have  been  five  or  six  years  ago  that  a 
friend  came  to  me  with  the  news  that  Frank 
Harris  had  expressed  a  desire  to  see  some  of  my 
verse.  Precisely  what  my  friend  had  told  Harris  about 
me,  I  do  not  know;  something  very  exaggerated,  per- 
haps; something  complimentary,  doubtless;  something 
that  piqued  Harris's  curiosity,  it  was  evident.  As  Harris 
is  one  of  the  few  modern  w^riters  for  whom  my  boyish 
admiration  has  survived  manhood,  I  felt  subtly  gratified 
that  he  should  take  even  a  fleeting  interest  in  me,  and 
I  sat  down  at  once  and  copied  out  various  poems  that 
had  already  appeared  in  The  Academy,  under  Lord 
Alfred  Douglas's  editorship,  and  in  The  English  Re- 
view in  the  days  of  Ford  Madox  Hueffer,  and,  more 
recently,  when  edited  by  Austin  Harrison.  With  my 
verses  I  sent  a  letter,  hypocritically  modest  as  regards 
myself,  honestly  full  of  admiration  as  regards  Harris. 
He  replied  from  his  villa  in  Nice,  sending  me  a  long 
letter  in  which  he  did  me  the  honour  to  enter  fully  into 
the  supposed  merits  and  demerits  of  my  work.  Of 
one  poem  he  said  that  it  was  not  sufficiently  sensual, 
and  I  have  never  been  able  quite  to  understand  what 
he  meant,  for  I  had,  with  some  particularity,  described 
seven  naked  ladies  swimming  in  a  pool,  and  I  had  felt 
that  my  verses  had  obviously  enough  expressed  my 
feelings. 

The  correspondence  continued  until,  one  day,  Harris 
wrote  to  tell  me  he  was  returning  to  London  and  to 
invite  me  to  visit  him  there.  In  the  event,  however, 
my  first  meeting  with  Harris  was  in  Manchester, 
whither  he  came  to  lecture  on  Shakespeare  to  the  local 
dramatic  society.  Jack  Kahane  (a  great  friend  of 
mine)  and  I  met  him  at  the  Midland  Hotel  upon  his 
arrival,  and  from  the  very  first  monnent  he  intoxicated 


Set  Down  in  Malice 


me.  Whilst  he  changed  from  his  travelling  clothes  to 
evening  dress  he  talked  and  ejaculated,  beseeching  us 
to  remain  with  him  as  he  had  had  "a  rotten  journey 
from  London  and  felt  unutterably  bored."  I  remember 
very  little  of  what  he  said  except  that,  with  some 
venom,  he  called  Browning  "a  not  unprospexous 
gentleman."  He  refused  to  eat  or  drink  before  his 
lecture  and,  presently,  we  went  down  to  the  large  room 
in  the  hotel  where  he  was  to  speak. 

We  found  there  a  mixed  assembly.  Everybody  in 
Manchester,  it  should  be  explained,  writes  plays;  at 
least,  I  never  yet  met  a  man  in  that  delectable  city 
who  does  not.  Moreover,  they  "study"  them.  They 
weigh  and  compare  the  merits  of  Stanley  Houghton 
and  Ibsen,  Harold  Brighouse  and  Strindberg,  Allan 
Monkhouse  and  Bjornson,  Arnold  Bennett  and  Haupt- 
mann,  Laurence  Housman  and  Brieux,  and  so  forth. 
They  search  for  "inner  meanings;  the  more  earnest  of 
them  hunt  for  "messages";  the  more  delicate  seek  to 
perceive  Fine  Shades.  They  are  veritable  disciples  of 
Miss  Horniman — priggishly  intellectual,  self-consci- 
ously superior.  And,  of  course,  the  rock  of  their  salva- 
tion is  St.  Bernard.  Innocuous  people  enough,  but 
impossible  to  live  with  in  the  same  city. 

To  this  assembly  of  earnest,  pale  men  and  spectacled 
women  Harris  was  to  lecture,  and  I  looked  from  them 
to  Harris  and  from  Harris  to  them  with  joyful  expecta- 
tions. From  the  very  first  sentence  he  was  fiery  and 
provocative,  throwing  out  daring  theories,  anathematis- 
ing all  forms  of  respectability,  upholding  with  unparal- 
leled fierceness  a  wonderful  ideal  of  chivalry  and 
nobility  and  condemning,  en  bloc,  the  whole  human 
race,  and  particularly  that  portion  of  it  seated  before 
him.  Ladies  rustled;  men  stirred  uneasily.  Then, 
having  delivered  himself  of  a  passage  of  hot  eloquence, 


Fkank  IIakkis 


he  paused.  A  clock  tickecl.  He  looked  defiantly  at 
us  and  still  paused.  A  fat  lady  in  the  front  row,  palp- 
ably embarrassed  by  the  long  silence  and,  no  doubt, 
feeling  that  she  had  reached  one  oT  the  most  dramatic 
moments  of  her  existence,  banged  her  pl'ump  hands 
together  and  ejaculated:  "Bravo I"  A  few  other  ladies 
of  both  sexes  joined  her,  but  Harris  was  not  to  be 
placated.  Thrusting  out  his  chin,  he  began  again.  And 
this  time  he  attacked  the  Mancunian  literary  idol.  Pro- 
fessor C.  H.  Herford,  a  great  scholar,  but  a  more  than 
suitable  object  for  Harris's  ridicule.  Herford  is  a  man 
who  has  not  lived  fully:  a  semi-invalid,  asthmatic, 
bloodless  and  spectacled ;  a  man  of  books  and  rather 
dusty  books;  in  effect,  a  professor.  He  had  recently 
reviewed  Harris's  book.  The  Man  Shakespeare,  in  The 
Manchester  Guardian,  and  had  called  it  "a  disgrace 
to  British  scholarship."  Why  this  should  have  annoyed 
the  author  1  cannot  tell,  but  Harris  is  at  times  a  little 
unreasonable.  Indeed,  "annoyance"  but  feebly  de- 
scribes the  feeling  that  spent  itself  in  scalding  invective 
and  the  most  terrible  irony.  Each  sentence  he  spoke 
appeared  to  be  the  last  word  in  bitterness;  but  each 
succeeding  sentence  leaped  above  and  beyond  its  pre- 
decessor, until  at  length  the  speaker  had  lashed  himself 
into  a  state  of  feeling  to  express  which  words  were 
useless.  He  stopped  magnificently,  and  this  time  the 
room  rang  with  applause.  It  is  probable  that  not  a 
half-a-dozen  people  present  believed  his  attack  on 
Professor  Herford  was  justified;  indeed,  it  is  probable 
that  not  half-a-dozen  were  qualified  to  form  any  opin- 
ion of  value  on  the  matter.  Nevertheless,  they  ap- 
plauded him  with  enthusiasm,  and  they  did  so  because 
they  had  been  deeply  stirred  by  eloquence  that  can 
only  be  described  as  superb  and  by  anger  that  was  lava 
hot  in  its  sincerity.  Briefly,  the  lecture  was  an  over- 
whelming success. 


SkT  1>0WN   1i\  .MALlt'K 


I  was  soon  to  discover  that  Harris,  like  all  the  men 
of  genius  I  h^ve  met,  is  vain.  I  do  not  mean  that  he 
overrates  his  gifts;  he  does  not;  nor  that  his  recognition 
of  his  own  genius  is  offensively  insistent:  such  is  very 
far  from  being  the  case.  I  mean  that  he  is  inordinately 
proud,  innocently  and  childlikely  proud,  of  things  that 
are  not  of  the  last  consequence.  At  supper  in  the 
French  Restaurant  the  head  waiter  slipped  noiselessly 
across  to  the  table  at  which  Harris,  Kahane  and  1  were 
sitting.  (Harris  is  the  kind  of  a  man  who  acts  as  a 
magnet  to  all  head  waiters — a  high  tribute  to  his 
dominating  personality.)  When  our  orders  had  been 
given  the  waiter,  turning  to  go,  said:  "Very  good,  Mr. 
Harris."  On  the  instant  Harris  looked  up.  "So  you 
know  me?"  he  asked.  "Yes,  sir.  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  waiting  on  you  in  Monte  Carlo  and,  if  I 
am  not  mistaken,  in  New  York  as  well."  It  is  difficult 
to  describe  the  naive  pleasure  Harris  took  in  this:  it 
stamped  him  at  once  as  a  rrian  of  the  world — he  who, 
of  all  people,  required,  in  our  opinion,  no  such  stamp. 

For  six  hours  we  talked — talked  long  after  every 
other  visitor  in  the  hotel  had  retired,  and  we  were  left 
alone  in  the  Octagon  Court  in  a  pool  of  dim  light. 
Harris  is  the  only  brilliant  talker  I  have  met  who  has 
not  made  me  feel  an  abject  idiot.  To  begin  with, 
though  he  has  a  pronounced  strain  of  violence,  almost 
of  brutality,  in  his  nature,  he  is  always  infinitely  court- 
eous. He  will  listen  to  your  (I  mean  my)  feeble  con- 
tributions to  a  discussion  with  interest  which,  if  feigned, 
is  so  admirably  feigned  that  you  are  completely  de- 
ceived. And  he  can  keep  this  sort  of  thing  up  in- 
definitely. Moreover,  though  his  mind  is  agile  enough, 
his  speech  is  rarely  quick;  it  is  slow  and  deliberate, 
but  without  hesitation,  without  a  single  word  of 
tautology. 


8  Fbank  Habeis 


I  cannot  hope,  after  so  long  a  lapse  of  time,  to  re- 
produce, however  faintly,  the  true  quality  of  Harris's 
conversation,  but  I  remember  the  substance  of  it  most 
^ividly.  In  his  lecture  earlier  in  the  evening  he  had 
mentioned  Jesus  Christ,  and  the  reference  to  our 
Saviour  had  been  so  original  in  its  implication,  yet  so 
reverent  in  its  manner,  that  I  felt  he  must  have  much 
that  is  new  to  say  on  a  subject  that  has  aroused  more 
discussion  than  any  other  during  the  last  two  thousand 
years.  So  I  broached  it  tentatively.  He  was  aroused 
immediately,  and  skilfully  drew  me  out  to  discover  if 
I  had  anything  new  to  say.  I  had  not.  I  merely  voiced 
what  must  be  an  age-long  regret,  that  only  one  side  of 
Christ's  nature  has  been  presented  to  us  in  the  Gospels; 
that  the  feasting,  joyous  Christ  has  been  only  faintly 
indicated;  and  that  His  tolerance  towards  the  weak- 
nesses of  the  body's  passions  had  always  been  shirked 
by  those  of  the  priestly  craft.  It  thought  it  possible 
that  at  some  future  crisis  in  the  world's  history  Christ 
might  come  again  and,  on  His  second  coming,  present 
to  the  world  a  more  complete  embodiment  of  all  the 
potentialities  inherent  in  human  nature. 

With  much  of  this  Harris  agreed,  though  I  soon  per- 
cftived  that  his  mind  had  for  long  been  intuitively 
building  up,  and  giving  true  proportion  to,  those  ele- 
ments in  Christ's  nature  that  are  only  hinted  at  in  the 
Gospels.  He  was  all  for  a  full-blooded,  passionate 
Jesus,  for  a  Jesus  who  had  tested  the  body's  powers, 
for  a  Jesus  who  was  crucified  by  passion  before  He 
was  crucified  by  Pilate,  In  a  word,  he  applied  to 
Jesus  the  same  intuitive  method  that  he  had  already 
applied  to  Shakespeare.  The  danger  of  his  method, 
of  course,  is  that  one  is  tempted  (and  it  is  almost  inv 
possible  not  to  succumb  to  the  temptation)  to  project 


<Sex  Down  in  Malice 


one's    own   personality   into    that   of   the   man    one   is 
studying. 

"My  next  book  shall  be  about  Jesus  Christ,"  said 
Harris.  "No  man  in  these  days  has  written  honestly 
about  Him." 

"Shall  you  write  as  a  believer?"  I  asked. 

"Most  assuredly,"  he  replied. 

Then  Harris  told  us  some  stories — stories  he  had 
written,  stories  he  had  yet  to  write.  I  remember  Austin 
Harrison  once  saying  to  me:  "Frank  Harris  is  the  most 
astounding  creature!  He  will  tell  you  a  story  and  tell 
it  so  marvellously  that,  when  he  has  finished,  you  say 
to  yourself:  'That  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  I  have 
ever  heard.'  And  you  say  to  him:  'Why,  in  God's 
name,  don't  you  write  that?'  Well,  he  does  write  it, 
and  when  you  read  it  you  see  that,  after  all,  it  is  by 
no  means  so  wonderful  a  thing  as  you  had  thought  it." 
But  this  is  only  half  true.  The  story  that  is  told  is  a 
very  different  thing  from  the  story  that  is  written:  so 
different,  indeed,  that  one  cannot  find  any  basis  for 
comparison.  In  telling  a  story  Harris  is  elliptical;  a 
faint  gesture  serves  for  a  sentence;  a  momentary 
silence  is  an  innuendo;  a  lifting  of  the  eyebrows,  a  look, 
a  dropping  of  the  voice,  a  slowness  in  his  speech — all 
these  take  the  place  of  w^ords.  He  is  an  exquisite  actor 
and  he  is  at  his  best  when  he  is  sinister  and  menacing. 
One  need  scarcely  say  that  the  effect  of  one  of  Harris's 
stories,  told  in  private,  with  only  one  or  two  listeners, 
is  extremely  powerful,  for  his  personality,  so  quick  to 
melt  and  suffuse  his  speech — colouring  it  and  vital- 
ising it — is  strong  and  strange  and  full  of  tropical 
richness.  ,  .  . 

But  the  actor's  gift  is  not  rare,  whereas  that  combina- 
tion of  talents  that  makes  a  great  short-story  writer  is 
met  with  only  once  or  twice  in  a  generation.     Harris's 


10  Frank  Harris 


claims  to  greatness  in  this  direction  cannot  justly  be 
denied,  though  of  late  years  there  has  been  a  notice- 
able tendency  to  treat  his  work  as  though  it  were  not 
of  first-rate  importance.  His  choice  of  subject,  the 
violence  of  his  thought,  his  strict  honesty  of  mind,  his 
open  contempt  for  many  of  his  contemporaries — these 
have  brought  him  enemies  whose  only  method  of  re- 
taliation is  to  decry  work  they  will  not  understand. 

But  Harris  could  not  be  happy  without  hostility. 
There  is  something  of  the  jaguar  in  his  nature;  he 
must,  for  his  soul's  peace,  have  his  teeth  in  the  flesh 
of  an  enemy.  And,  if  he  is  not  fighting  an  individual, 
he  is  offending  society  at  large.  Years  ago,  so  Harris 
told  me,  when  he  was  editing  The  Fortnightly  Review 
with  such  distinction,  he  printed  one  of  his  own  short 
stories  in  that  magazine — a  story  that,  for  one  reason 
or  another,  gave  great  offence  to  a  large  section  of 
readers.  Within  twenty-four  hours  he  had  a  hornet's 
nest  about  his  ears,  and  the  directors  of  the  firm, 
Messrs  Chapman  &  Hall,  who  published  the  Fort- 
nightly, met  in  solemn  conclave  to  discuss  what  should 
be  done  with  so  injudicious  and  reckless  an  editor. 
Needless  to  say,  Harris  stood  by  his  guns,  and  one  can 
imagine  the  splendidly  arrogant  way  in  which  he  would 
uphold  his  right  to  insert  anything  he  chose  in  a 
magazine  edited  by  himself.  But  discussion  made  mat- 
ters only  more  critical,  and  Harris  told  me  he  would 
have  been  compelled  to  hand  in  his  resignation  if  an 
unforeseen  event  had  not  occurred.  That  event  was 
the  entrance  of  George  Meredith,  who,  at  that  time, 
was  a  reader  for  Messrs  Chapman  &  Hall.  As  soon 
as  his  eyes  lit  on  Harris  he  held  out  his  hand,  and 
walked  quickly  up  to  him,  saying:  "My  warmest  con- 
gratulations! Your  story  in  the  new  number  is  quite 
the  finest  thing  you  have  done — an  honour  to  yourself 


Set  Down  in  Malice 


and  the  Fortnightly!"  That  left  no  further  room  for 
discussion  and,  needless  to  say,  Harris  retained  his 
editorship  of  the  great  magazine. 

My  first  meeting  with  Harris  was  of  the  friendliest 
nature,  and  on  his  return  to  London  he  wrote  to  me 
thanking  me  for  something  1  had  written  about  him 
in  The  Manchester  Courier.  (1  noticed  with  amuse- 
ment that  TTie  Manchester  Guardian,  unable,  no  doubt, 
to  forgive  Harris  for  attacking  Professor  Herford,  had 
absolutely  ignored  the  Shakespeare  lecture,  except  to 
announce  baldly  that  it  had  been  given.) 

Very  soon  after  this  meeting  in  Manchester  I  went 
to  live  in  London,  and  called  on  Harris  in  Chancery 
Lane.  He  was  running  a  curious  illustrated  weekly, 
entitled  Hearth  and  Home,  and  I  remember  sitting  in 
a  little  back  room  in  his  office  turning  over  the  files 
of  his  magazine  and  wondering  what  on  earth  he 
hoped  to  do  with  such  a  production.  It  was  tame;  it 
was  watery;  it  was  feeble.     I  looked  at  him  quizzically. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  don't  you  see,  ..."  I  began  hesitatingly; 
"don't  you  see  that  .  .  .  well,  now,  look  at  the  title!" 

"Title's  good  enough,  don't  you  think?  " 

"Oh  yes,  good  enough  .  .  .  good  enough  for  Fleet- 
way  House.  Why  not  sell  it  to  Northcliffe?  But 
you've  got  no  Aunt  Maggie's  column,  and  no  Beauty 
Hints,  and  no  Cupid's  Comer!     Oh,  Harris!" 

He  laughed,  and  invited  me  out  to  lunch. 

I  never  discovered  what  strange  circumstances  had 
conspired  to  make  him  the  possessor  of  this  extra- 
ordinary production.  No  doubt  he  bought  it  for  noth- 
ing, with  the  intention  of  rapidly  improving  it  and  sell- 
ing it  for  something  substantial  later  on.  But  I  believe 
it  died  soon  after — perhaps  urged  on  to  its  grave  by 


Frank  Habris 


some  verses  of  mine  which  were  printed  close  to  an 
advertisement  of  ladies'  . 

On  our  way  out  of  the  office  we  were  joined  by  a 
very  beautiful  lady  w^ho,  it  soon  transpired,  shared  my 
admiration  for  Harris's  genius.  We  jumped  on  to  a 
bus  running  at  full  speed  and  alighted,  a  couple  of 
minutes  later,   at  Simpson's. 

Harris  should  write  a  book  on  cookery.  Perhaps  he 
will.  Harris  should  run  a  hotel.  But  he  has  already 
done  so.  Harris  should  be  induced  to  print  all  the  in- 
discreet things  he  says  over  coffee  and  liqueurs.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  close  study  of  Simpson's  menu  that  started 
the  cookery  discussion.  The  Beautiful  Lady  and  I 
were  told  what  was  wrong  and  what  was  right  with 
the  menu.  And  then  began  a  discourse,  profound, 
full  of  strange  knowledge  and  recondite  wisdom,  a 
discourse  that  Balsac  should  have  heard,  that  the  de 
Goncourts  would  have  envied.  We  listened,  amazed. 
And  a  waiter,  having  rushed  to  our  table  in  the  stress 
of  his  work,  stood  anchored,  his  mouth  slightly  open, 
his  whole  attention  riveted  on  the  Master  from  whom 
no  gastronomic  secrets  were  hid.  Truly,  Harris  was 
amazing! 

After  a  considerable  time  his  enthusiasm  evaporated 
and  we  began  to  eat.  And  then  ensued  a  long  talk, 
full  of  indiscretions,  of  most  enjoyable  malice.  Harris 
told  us  many  things  that,  perhaps,  it  would  have  been 
wiser  if  he  had  kept  to  himself.  But,  in  spite  of  his 
venom,  his  real  hatred  of  certain  individuals,  he  never 
for  a  moment  permits  himself  to  be  blinded  to  the 
quality  of  a  man's  work. 

"So-and-so  is  the  most  detestable  person,"  he  said, 
speaking  of  a  well-known  writer,  "but  he  is  one  of  the 
few  real  poets  alive."     Again:  "X  is  the  most  generous- 


.Set  Jjuw^n  in  lMamck  13 

hearted  man  I  have  ever  met;  it's  a  pity  he  can't  learn 
to  write." 

Mention  of  Richard  Middleton,  who  had  only  re- 
cently died  by  his  own  hand  in  Brussels,  troubled  him, 
and  it  was  clear  that  he  had  not  yet  recovered  from 
the  shock  of  this  tragedy. 

"He  killed  himself  in  a  mood  of  sheer  disgust — dis- 
gust at  his  lack  of  success.  True,  he  was  still  young, 
and  was  becoming  more  widely  known  month  by 
month;  also,  he  had  many  friends.  Nevertheless,  life 
did  not  give  him  what  he  asked  and,  tired  of  asking, 
he  ended  life.  I  remember  him  coming  to  me  just  be- 
fore, he  left  England.  He  wanted  to  get  away.  Some 
mood  of  loathing  had  come  to  him;  he  was  fretful,  yet 
determined.  I  offered  him  my  villa  at  Nice;  it  was 
empty,  the  caretaker  would  attend  to  his  wants  and  he 
would  have  ample  leisure  for  his  work.  He  hesitated, 
stayed  in  London  a  day  or  two  longer  and  then  dis- 
appeared to  Brussels.  ...  I  know  the  poison  he  used, 
and  a  score  of  times  I  have  gone  over  in  my  mind  the 
tortures  he  must  have  endured." 

Harris  paled;  his  face  twitched  and,  involuntarily, 
as  it  seemed,  his  shoulders  twisted  themselves.  Brood- 
ing, he  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then,  collect- 
ing himself  with  a  little  shudder,  began  to  speak  of 
other  things. 

A  little  later  the  Beautiful  Lady  departed  and  we 
were  left  alone. 

"And  now,"  said  Harris,  "tell  me  about  yourself. 
What  are  you  doing?  Why  have  you  left  Manchester? 
— -ibut  there  is  no  reason  to  ask  that.  Tell  me  this — 
are  you  making  enough  money  for  yourself?" 

"Well,  I've  lived  in  London  just  one  week,"  said  I, 
"and  my  tastes  are  rather  expensive.  Just  before  I 
left  Manchester  a  very  experienced  journalist  told  me 


14  iFkank  Haisris 


I  shouM  be  making  a  thousand  pounds  a  year  at  the 
end  of  eighteen  months;  another,  equally  experienced, 
declared  I  should  never  make  more  than  six  pounds 
a  week.     I  hope  the  second  one  won't  prove  correct." 

He  mused  for  a  few  moments. 

"You  ought  to  make  a  thousand  pounds  a  year 
pretty  easily,  I  should  think,"  he  said  at  length.  "Whom 
do  you  know?" 

I  knew  nobody,  and  said  so.  He  thereupon  took  a 
piece  of  paper  from  his  pocket  and  wrote  a  list  of 
names;  at  the  top  of  the  list  stood  J.  L.  Garvin;  at  the 
bottom  Lord  Northcliffe, 

"Northcliffe's  away,"  he  said,  "buying  forests  in 
Newfoundland  to  make  paper  with.  However,  he'll 
be  back  in  a  week  or  two,  and  in  the  meantime  I'll 
write  you  a  I'etter  to  give  to  him.  And  now  we'll  take 
a  taxi  and  see  people." 

Harris  gave  up  the  whole  of  that  day  to  me  and, 
largely  owing  to  him,  I  had  within  the  next  few  days 
more  work  offered  to  me  than  I  could  possibly  get 
through.  From  time  to  time,  months  later,  good  things 
would  come  my  way,  and  nearly  always  I  could  trace 
them  to  something  generous  and  fine  that  Harris  had 
said  for  me. 

It  was  chiefly  because  he  was  so  generous  with  his 
time  that  I  so  rarely  called  upon  him.  Often  I  would 
curb  a  strong  desire  to  see  him,  feeling  that  however 
embarassing  my  visit  might  be,  he  would,  out  of  a 
quixotic  kindness,  throw  up  his  work  and  come  with 
me  to  talk.  For  this  reason  I  had  not  seen  him  for 
some  little  time,  when,  one  morning,  I  received  a  letter 
from  him  reproaching  me  foi  my  absence.  "Why  have 
you  hidden  yourself  for  so  long?"  he  asked.  "!  go 
to  the  Cafe  every  night;  come,  you  will  find  me  there." 

"The  Cafe,"  of  course,  was  the  Cafe  Royal.      It  so 


Si.i   I  <()\\\\   i.\  iMai.ici:  15 

chanced  that,  that  very  afternoon,  my  duties  took  me 
to  a  symphony  concert  in  the  Queen's  Hall;  the  concert 
over,  I  found  myself  passing  the  Cafe  Royal  on  my 
way  from  the  Queen's  Hall  to  Piccadilly  Circus,  and 
turned  in  on  the  remote  chance  of  finding  Harris. 

At  the  end  of  the  passage,  near  the  windows  where 
French  papers  are  displayed,  I  found  a  crowd  of  a 
dozen  excited  men,  all  talking  and  gesitculating.  The 
rest  of  the  Cafe  was  empty,  as  one  would  expect  at 
that  time  of  the  day.  In  the  middle  of  the  small  crowd 
was  Harris,  who  caught  my  eye  almost  at  once.  He 
came  to  me,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  rather  agitated. 

"Come  and  sit  over  here,  Cumberland,"  he  said. 
"I've  just  been  through  a  beastly  quajter  of  an  hour." 

It  appeared  that  a  well-known  and  very  disting- 
uished litterateur  had  quarrelled  with  him  in  the  Cafe. 
.  .  .  Blows  had  been  exchanged.  .  .  . 

We  talked  of  money — an  ever-absorbing  topic  both 
to  Harris  and  to  me.  He  told  me  his  books  had 
brought  him  practically  nothing.  For  The  Bomb,  if  I 
remember  correctly,  he  received  fifty  pounds — cer- 
tainly not  more  than  one  hundred  pounds. 

"If  I  had  been  compelled  to  live  by  what  my  books 
have  brought  me,"  he  said,  "I  should  have  starved. 
Yet  it  is  not  long  ago  that  Arnold  Bennett  assured  me 
that  I  should  be  able  to  earn  five  thousand  pounds  a 
year  if  I  gave  my  whole  time  to  fiction.  But  Bennett 
is  wrong.  My  books,  ever  since  Elder  Conklin  was 
published,  have  been  enthusiastically  praised,  but  they 
have  not  had  large  sales.  Most  authors  must  find  book- 
writing  the  most  unremunerative  work  in  the  world. 
I  put  an  enormous  amount  of  labour  into  The  Bomb, 
as  I  do  into  all  my  books,  and  the  labour  was  not  made 
any  the  less  from  the  fact  that  much  of  the  earliest 
part  of  the  book  is  autobiographical.      In  my  young 


1 6  Fkank  Hakris 


manhood  I  worked  as  a  labourer,  deep  under  water, 
at  the  foundations  of  Brooklyn  Bridge;  it  is  all  de- 
scribed in  my  book." 

Though  I  went  to  the  Cafe  Royal  at  frequent  in- 
tervals after  that  I  very  rarely  saw  Harris  there.  He 
had  abandoned  Hearth  and  Home,  or  it  had  aban- 
doned him,  and  he  was  now  throwing  away  his  bril- 
liant gifts  on  Modem  Society.  I  was  elected  an 
honorary  member  of  the  Cabaret  Clulb,  run  by  Madame 
Strindberg,  the  widow  of  the  great  Swedish  writer,  and 
I  used  to  look  in  there  occasionally  in  the  early  hours 
of  the  morning,  expecting  to  run  across  Harris,  who, 
I  heard,  also  visited  the  exotic,  underground  and 
rather  riotous  place.  But  1  never  chanced  to  see  him, 
and  two  or  three  months  must  have  passed  without 
my  hearing  of  him. 

In  March,  1914,  I  went  to  Athens  for  a  holiday. 
Something  brave  and  wonderful  in  that  city,  some  an- 
cient Bacchic  madness,  some  fierce  exaltation  of  soul 
took  hold  of  me,  and  I  remember  sitting  down  one 
night,  after  a  visit  to  fever-stricken  Eleusis,  to  write  to 
Harris,  feeling  the  necessity  of  expressing  myself  to 
one  who  would  understand.  The  reader  may  be 
amused  that  1  should  think  Harris  akin  to  ancient 
Greece,  but  if  the  reader  is  amused  he  does  not  know 
Harris.  Only  A.  R.  Orage  is  more  Greek  in  spirit  than 
he  is.  In  reply  Harris  wrote  at  great  length,  full  of  the 
fervour  of  a  young  student.  He  told  me  that  in  his 
young  manhood  he  had  spent  a  year  of  study  in  that 
wonderful  city,  and  urged  me  to  visit  him  on  my  return 
to  England. 

But  I  was  destined  not  to  see  him  agaiti.  Very  soon 
after  my  return  to  England  he  got  into  trouble  with 
reference  to  something  libellous  that  he  had  published 
in  Modem  Society.      He  was  kept  in  prison,   if  i  re- 


Set  Down  in  Malice  17 

member  rightly,  for  about  a  month.  I  sought  per- 
mission to  visit  him  there,  but  was  refused,  and  I  was 
staying  in  Oxford  when  he  was  released. 

Soon  after  the  war  broke  out  he  wrote  me  the  follow- 
ing letter  from  Paris: — 

1 
23,  Avenue  Du  Bois  De  Boulogne,  Paris, 
29th  Aug.  '14. 

My  dear  Cumberland, — I'm  just  back  from  the 
frontier.  .  .  .  This  war  of  nations  is  going  to  test 
every  man  as  by  fire  before  it's  over.  It  will  be  long 
in  spite  of  Mr  Kipps  and  Bernard  Shaw.  The  Russian 
masses  will  hardly  come  decisively  into  action  (they 
have  scarcely  any  railways  and  no  good  roads)  till 
next  May  or  June,  and  long  before  then,  or  rather  in 
a  couple  of  months  from  now,  the  French  will  be 
pressed  back  to  within  twenty  miles  of  besieged  Paris, 
when  I  hope  the  English  forces  on  the  flank  will  stop 
the  German  advance.  Then  will  begin  the  slow  pro- 
cess of  driving  the  Germans  home,  which  will  be 
quickened  by  the  Russian  weight  behind  Cossack 
pricks.  Fancy  one  man  having  the  power  to  set  400 
millions  of  men  fighting  for  their  lives.  And  then  they 
talk  of  man  as  a  rational  animal!! 

Don't  say  you  like  what  I  wrote  in  The  Daily  Sketch; 
all  my  best  things  were  carefully  cut  out  and  filled  up 
with  drivel,   till  my  cheeks  burned. 

Your  sketch  of  me  is  very  kindly;  the  fault  you  find 
in  me  is  not  a  fault.  Jesus,  Shakespeare,  Napoleon — 
all  the  greatest  men  have  known  their  own  value  and 
insisted  on  it — perhaps  because  they  have  all  come  to 
their  own  and  their  own  received  them  not.  When  you 
have  done  great  work  you  feel  it  is  not  yours,  but  given 
to  you;  you  are  only  a  reed  shaken  in  the  wind;  you 
can  judge  it  as  if  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  you.    More- 


Frank  Harris 


over,  you  see  that  this  failure  to  recognize  greatness 
is  the  capital  sin  of  all  time,  the  sin  against  the  Holy 
Ghost  which  He  said  could  never  be  forgiven.  Modesty 
is  the  fig-leaf  of  mediocrity — don't  let  us  talk  of  it. 
Remember  how  Whistler  scourged  it. 

I'm  writing  now  on  Natural  Religion — my  best  thing 
yet:  I've  done  more  than  Nietzsche:  don't  think  I'ln 
bragging.  I  am  the  Reconciler;  though  my  cocked 
nose  and  keen  eyes  may  make  you  think  me  a  com- 
batant. Twenty  years  hence,  Cumberland,  if  your 
eyes  keep  their  promise,  you'll  think  differently  of  me. 
1  remember  as  a  young  man  getting  Wagner  to  praise 
himself  and  saying  to  myself  that  no  man  was  ever  so 
conceited  as  the  little  hawk-faced  fellow  with  the 
ploughshare  chin.  Did  he  not  say  that  the  step  from 
Bach  to  Beethoven  was  not  so  great  as  that  from 
Beethoven  to  Wagner!  And  yet  for  these  fifteen  years 
past  I  have  agreed  with  him  and  find  nothing  conceited 
in  the  declaration.  Only  weak  men  are  hurt  by 
another  man's  conceit;  are  we  not  gods  also  to  be 
spoken  of  with  reverence? 

To  see  the  world  in  a  grain  of  sand 

And  Heaven  in  a  wild  flower. 
To  hold  Infinity  in  your  hand 

And  Eternity  in  an  hour. 

The  questin  for  you  is,  have  I  quickened  you?  En- 
couraged you  to  be  a  brave  soldier  in  the  Liberation 
War  of  Humanity?  Did  virtue  come  out  of  me?  or 
discouragement?  Now  at  nearly  sixty  I  am  about  to 
rebuild  my  life:  my  own  people  have  stoned  and  im- 
prisoned and  exiled  me.  Well — the  world's  wide.  In 
October  I  shall  be  in  New  York,   ready   for  another 


Set  Down  in  (Malice  ig 

round  with  Fate.      Meanwhile,  all  luck  to  you  and  all 
good  will  from  your  friend, 

Frank  Harris. 
Remember  this  word   of  Joubert:   there  is  no  such 
sure    sign    of    mediocrity    as    constant    moderation    in 
praise.     Ha!     Ha!     Ha!     Yours  ever,  F.  H. 

There  is  not  in  this  letter  a  single  word  to  indicate 
that  he  was  not,  heart  and  soul,  in  sympathy  with  the 
Allied  Cause.  Late  in  September,  1914,  I  was  myself 
in  Paris,  having  visited  Amiens  and  the  Marne.  I  took 
the  earliest  oportunity  of  calling  upon  Harris,  but  dis- 
covered that  he  had  left  his  rooms  a  few  days  earlier, 
leaving  no  indication  of  his  next  resting-place.  On 
calling  upon  the  American  Counsel  I  discovered  that 
my  friend  had  already  sailed  for  the  States. 

Subsequently  he  wrote  bitterly  about  England  in  an 
American  paper.  I  never  had  an  opportunity  of  read- 
ing his  articles,  but  I  read  various  extracts  from  them  in 
British  newspapers,  and  was  astounded  both  by  the 
views  they  contained  and  by  the  manner  in  which 
those  views  were  expressed. 

Years  ago  Ruskin  wrote  Rossetti  a  curious  letter:  he 
said  he  could  regard  no  man  as  friend  who  did  not 
value  his  ( Ruskin' s)  gifts  as  highly  as  he  (Ruskin)  did. 
Harris,  no  doubt,  adopted  the  same  kind  of  attitude 
towards  England.  England  refused  to  accept  him  at 
his  own  estimate  and,  at  length,  in  fierce  disgust, 
Harris  turned  his  back  on  a  country  which  he  deemed 
unworthy  of  him. 

.  Gerald  Cumberland. 


I 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 


Fkank  Harris 


AN  old-fashioned  square  house  on  Long  Island,  set  in  a  clear- 
ing of  pine  trees :  a  break  in  the  cliff  shows  a  little  triangle 
of  sandy  beach  and  the  waters  of  the  sound  dancing  in  the 
moonlight.  Half  a  dozen  men  are  sitting  about  on  the  stoop 
looking  over  the  silvery  waters. 

The  evening  papers  had  published  an  account  of  Mrs.  Amory's 
will  which  showed  that  she  had  left  half  a  million  dollars  to  a 
nursing  home  for  mill-children  in  Philadelphia.  The  news  set 
us  all  talking  of  the  wonderful  work  she  had  done  and  her  self- 
sacrifice.  Most  of  us  assumed  that  it  was  a  religious  motive 
that  had  induced  this  rich  and,  it  was  said,  handsome  woman  to 
give  years  of  her  life  to  improving  the  lot  of  the  city's  waifs 
and  strays. 

The  ladies  had  left  us  and  gone  up  to  bed ;  but  we  still  dis- 
cussed the  matter.  Suddenly  Charlie  Railton  turned  to  Judge 
Barnett  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  -the  State  of  New  York,  who 
sat  with  his  chaJr  tilted  back  against  (he  wall  ruminating.- 

"Say,  Judge,  what  do  you  think  of  it  anyway?  I'd  like  to  hear 
your  opinion." 

"I  have  no  opinion  on  the  matter,"  replied  the  Judge,  taking 
the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  and  speakaing  very  slowly,  "I  don't 
know  women  well  enough  to  be  sure  about  anything  where 
they're  concerned." 

"Plead  guilty.  Judge,"  cried  Railton,  who  was  about  thirty  years 
of  age.  "plead  guilty  and  throw  yourself  on  the  mercy  of  the  Court : 
I  guess  you  know  women  better  than  most  of  us,  and  they're 
pretty  easy  to  know,  it  seems  to  me." 

"I  used  to  think  so,  too,"  said  the  Judge,  "but  I  got  kind  o' 
puzzled  once  and   I've   never  been   sure   since." 

"How  was  that,  Judge?"  cried  our  host,  one  of  the  boldest 
speculators  on  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange,  scenting  a 
mystery. 

"It's  a  long  story,"  said  Barnett  deliberately,  "and  it's  pretty 
late  already." 

We  all  protested  and  called  for  the  story  and  the  Judge  began  : 

"It  takes  one  a  long  way  back,  I'am  afraid;  back  to  the  late 
sixties,  and  it's  autobiographical,  too;  I  guess  it  has  every  fault."" 

"Go  on,"  we  cried  in  chorus. 

After  being  admitted  to  the  Bar — he  resumed — I  went  up  to 
my  mother's  place  in  Maine,  to  rest.  Along  in  the  winter  I  got 
pneumonia  on  a  shooting-trip  and  could  not  shake  it  off.  1 
crawled  through  the  summer  and  then  made  up  my  mind  to  go 
to  California  or  somewhere  warm  for  the  winter;  I  had  had 
enough  of  snow  and  blizzards.  I  spent  the  Winter  in  Santa 
Barbara  and  got  as  fit  as  a  young  terrier. 

In  the  spring  I  went  to  'Frisco  and  there  in  a  gymnasium  and 
boxing  saloon  got  to  know  a  man  who  was  about  the  best  athlete 
I  ever  struck.  WinterStein  might  have  been  heavyweight  champion 
if  he  had  trained,  and  he  was  handsome  enough  for  a  stage  lover. 
He  was  just  under  six  feet  in  height,  with  bold  expression  and 
good    features;    dark   hair  in   little   curls  all   over  his  head  and 


4 


A  Daiuhtkk  of  Eve 


-33 


agate-dark  eyes  which  grew  black  when  he  was  excited  or  angry. 

I  found  he  was  a  better  man  physically  than  I  was,  and  that 
was  the  beginning  of  our  friendship ;  we  soon  became  intimate 
and  he  told  me  all  about  his  early  life.  He  was  born  in  the 
North  of  England,  and  became  a  sailor  in  the  English  navy,  but 
he  could  not  stand  the  rigid  discipline,  poor  food,  and  harsh 
treatment.  He  deserted  in  Quebec  while  still  a  lad,  and  made 
his  way  to  New  York.  He  had  not  had  much  education,  but  lie 
had  improved  what  he  had  by  reading.  Like  most  men  of  m- 
telligence  who  have  not  had  a  college  training,  he  set  great  store 
by  books  and  book  learning,  and  got  me  to  help  him  with  mathe- 
matics. He  had  a  captain's  certificate,  it  appeared,  but  he  wanted 
to  know  .navigation  thoroughly;  he  surprised  me  one  day  by 
telling  me  he  owned  a  little  vessel  which  was  nearly  ready  for  sea. 

"I  have  just  had  her  overhauled,"  he  said;  "would  you  like  to 
come  and  see  her?     She's  lying  off  Meiggs's." 

"What  do  you  do  with  her?"  I  questioned,  full  of  curiosity. 

"I  go  pearling."  he  said ;  "pearls  are  found  nearly  all  round 
the  Gulf  of  California.  The  fisher-folk  rake  in  the  oysters  and 
lay  them  on  the  beach  till  they  get  bad  and  open  of  themselves. 
The  children  collect  the  pearls  and  keep  them  until  I  come  round. 
I  paid  for  the  craft  and  have  a  couple  of  thousand  dollars  put 
by  from  last  year's  work." 

"But  where  did  you  learn  about  pearls?"  I  asked. 

"I  worked  for  a  man  once  and  picked  it  up.  Sometimes  I  make 
a  little  mistake,  but  not  often.  You  see  we  go  to  out-of-the-way 
places  where  we  reckon  to  give  about  a  quarter  what  the  pearls 
are  worth.     That  leaves  a  wide  margin  for  mistakes." 

"But  I  had  no  idea  that  there  were  pearls  in  the  Gulf,"  I  said 

"Why  not  come  along  and  see  for  yourself,"  he  said.  "I'll 
be  starting  in  a  week.  The  schooner  had  to  have  her  bottom 
cleaned  and  the  copper  repaired,  that's  what's  hung  me  up  for 
this  last  month  or  so.  Now  I'm  about  right  for  another  year. 
If  you'd  like  to  come,  I'd  be  glad  to  have  you." 

"And  make  me  mate?"  I  asked  laughing. 

"Commander,"  he  replied  seriously,  "and  you  shall  have  ten 
per  cent  of  the  profits." 

"I'll  think  it  over  and  let  you  know,"  was  my  answer. 

The  adventure  tempted  me,  the  strange  life  and  work,  the 
novelty  of  the  thing :  I  resolved  to  go  pearling. 

I  went  with  Winterstein  to  the  wharf  and  he  showed  his  craft 
to  me.  She  looked  like  a  toy  vessel,  a  little  schooner,  a  fifty- 
footer  of  about  forty  tons.  She  sat  on  the  water  like  a  duck, 
a  little  New  England  model  with  beautiful  lines.  Winterstein 
introduced  me  to  his  first  mate,  Donkin,  and  his  second  mate, 
Crawford.  Donkin  was  a  big  lump  of  a  fellow,  six  feet  two  in 
height,  broad  in  proportion  and  brawny,  a  good  seaman.  Craw- 
ford I  soon  found  out  was  an  even  better  sailor  and  more  in- 
telligent, though  of  only  average  strength. 

"What  about  the  crew?"  I  asked  Winterstein  when  we  were 
alone  in  the  little  cabin.. 


24  Frank  llAURitj 


"I  want  one  more  man  and  a  boy,"  he  replied  laughing  at  my 
surprised  face. 

"But,"  I  retorted,  "you  can't  have  three  officers  and  one  man." 

"It's  like  this,"  he  said :  "Donkin  has  only  been  a  second  mate, 
but  he  gets  a  first  mate's  certificate  provided  he  stays  with  me 
a  year,  and  the  same  thing  with  Crawford.  The  work  is  not 
hard,"  he  added  apologetically,  "they  get  good  wages  and  a  lift 
in  rank  and  it  suits  them,  and  so  I  get  first-rate  work  cheap. 
FSur  or  five  men  can  manage  this  craft  easy  so  long  as  we  don't 
strike  a  cyclone  and  there  ain't  much  dirty  weather  in  the  Gulf." 

A  couple  of  days  later  Winterstein  told  me  shyly  that  he  had 
been  married  recently,  and  after  I  had  congratulated  him,  he 
insisted  that  I  must  come  and  be  introduced  to  the  prettiest  girl 
in  California.  All  the  way  uptown  he  praised  his  young  wife, 
and  the  praise  I  found  was  not  extravagant.  Mrs.  Winterstein 
was  charming:  tall  and  fair  with  Irish  gray  eyes;  her  shyness 
and  love  of  Winterstein  put  a  sort  of  aureole  about  her.  She 
was  of  Irish  parentage :  before  her  marriage  her  name  had  been 
Rose  O'Connor.  Nothing  would  do  but  I  must  call  her  Rose 
at  once.  The  pair  lived  in  a  little  frame  house  on  the  side  of  the 
bluff,  where  now  there  is  a  famous  park.  An  old  Irishwoman 
did  the  chores  for  Rose  and  mothered  and  scolded  her  just  as 
she  had  done  before  her  marriage.  Rose,  I  learned,  had  been 
a  teacher  in  the  High  School.  In  the  next  few  days  I  saw  a 
good  deal  of  her.  She  was  doing  up  her  quarters  and  buying 
knick-knacks  for  the  cabin  and  tiny  stateroom,  and  I  naturally 
ran  her  errands  and  tried  to  save  her  trouble. 

Whenever  I  ventured  a  shy  compliment  she  always  told  me 
I  must  see  her  sister  Daisy,  who  was  at  Sacramento  in  a  finishing 
school.  Daisy  was  lovely  and  Daisy  was  clever;  there  was  no 
one  like  Daisy  in  her  sister's  eyes. 

*  :!:  * 

It  was  a  perfect  June  morning  with  just  air  enough  to  make 
the  sun  dance  on  the  ripples,  when  at  length  we  were  all  ready 
on  board  and  starting  out  of  the  bay. 

Our  crew  had  been  completed  by  a  young  darky  called  Abraham 
Lincoln,  who  at  once  took  over  the  cooking,  and  a  sailor  called 
Dyer,  who  was  a  little  lame,  but  handy  enough  at  his  work. 

The  first  part  of  the  cruise  was  uneventful :  it  might  have  been 
a  yachting  trip.  Day  after  day  we  sailed  along  in  delightful 
Sunshine,  with  a  six-  or  eight-knot-breeze.  The  perfect  condi- 
tions would  have  been  monotonous  had  we  not  amused  ourselves 
with  fishing.  One  day  I  rethember  we  got  rather  rough  weather 
and  when  Winterstein,  Donkin  and  myself  took  our  bearing  next 
day  we  found  that  we  had  been  swept  some  distance  to  the 
westward. 

It  was  Crawford  who  solved  the  enigma  for  us.  He  told  us 
there  was  a  current  called  the  West  Wind  Drift,  which  set  across 
the  Pacific  from  East  to  West  as  if  making  for  'Frisco  and  then 
flows  down  the  coast  from  North  to  South  till  it  meets  the  North 
Equatorial  current  which  comes  from  the  South  and  sweeps  out 


A  Daughxkk  of  Eve 


25 


to  the  West,  carrying  the  tail  end,  so  to  speak,  of  the  Drift 
with  it.  Where  the  two  opposing  currents  meet  off  the  South 
Californian  coast,  one  often  finds  a  heavy  sea  and  variable  cross- 
winds.  But  as  soon  as  we  turned  into  the  Gulf  the  fine  weather 
began  again. 

The  trading  which  I  had  hoped  vTould  be  full  of  adventure 
turned  out  to  be  quite  simple  and  tame.  We  ran  along  the  shore, 
stopping  wherever  there  was  a  village.  Usually  we  dropped 
anchor  pretty  close  in  and  rowed  ashore.  At  nine  places  out 
of  ten  Winterstein  was  known.  The  fishermen  brought  out  their 
little  cotton-bags  of  pearls  and  we  bought  them.  Curiously 
enough,  the  black  pearl,  so  esteemed  to-day,  had  then  no  value 
at  all.  Whenever  we  bought  a  packet  of  white  pearls,  the  black 
ones  were  thrown  in  as  not  worth  estimating.  The  pink  pearls, 
too,  had  no  price,  unless  they  were  exceptionally  large  or  beauti- 
fully shaped,  and  even  then  they  were  very  cheap.  I  began  to 
collect  the  black  pearls  to  make  a_  necklace  for  Mrs.  Winterstein. 
I  was  half  in  love  with  her  I  think  from  the  beginning.  She  was 
■not  only  very  pretty  but  laughter-loving,  and  girlish,  and  her 
little  matronly  airs  sat  drolly  upon  her.  Everyone  on  board  liked 
her,  I  don't  know  why.  I  suppose  she  wanted  to  please  us  all, 
for  she  was  full  of  consideration  for  everyone.  I  have  never 
seen  any  woman  who  appealed  so  unconsciously  and  so  directly 
to  the  heart,  and  her  happiness  was  something  that  had  to  be 
seen  to  be  believed.  She  simply  adored  her  husband,  waited  on 
him  hand  and  foot,  and  pampered  all  his  little  selfishnesses.  She 
was  only  unhappy  when  away  from  him,  or  when  it  was  rough 
weather  and  she  was  sea-sick.  Curiously  enough,  in  spite  of 
the  long  cruise,  she  never  became  a  good  sailor.  In  fine  weather 
she  was  all  right,  but  the  moment  The  Rose  commenced  to  bob 
about,  Mrs.  Winterstein  used  to  retire  to  her  cabin. 

I  told  no  one  about  the  necklace.  I  simply  annexed  all  the 
black  pearls  and  determined  to  get  them  strung  together  as 
soon  as  we  got  back  to  'Frisco.  I  never  landed  without  asking 
after  them,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  buy  some  which  were 
being  used  by  the  native  children  as  trinkets.  I  remember  once 
coming  across  an  extraordinary  specimen  as  big  as  a  marble, 
perfectly  round,  and  with  a  perfect  skin.  We  were  passing  a 
cabin  where  a  couple  of  mestizo  girls  of  fourteen  and  sixteen 
were  seated  on  the  sand  playing  a  game  of  bones,  which  I  think 
must  be  as  old  as  the  world,  for  the  Greeks  knew  it  as  astragalos. 
You- throw  the  round  bones  up  into  the  air  and  turn  your  hand 
round  quickly  and  catch  them  on  the  back.  Among  the  five 
bones  was  a  black  pearl,  which  I  admired  at  once  and  bought 
for  a  quarter,  T  think.  I  can  still  see  the  half-naked  girl-child 
as  she  handed  it  to  me.  She  stood  on  one  leg  like  a  stork,,  and 
with  her  right  foot  rubbed  her  left  ankle,  while  glancing  at  me 
Iialf-shyly  out  of  great  liquid  dark  eyes.  She  had  only  a  red 
calico  wrap  about  her  body,  out  of  the  folds  of  which  one  small 
round  amber  breast  showed:  but  she  was  evidently  unconscious 
of  her  nudity — a  child  in  mind,  a  woman  in  body. 

I  have  absolutely  nothing  interesting  to  tfU  of  this  first  cruise 


26  FkA.XK   ILVHUIS 


We  stopped  once  where  the  sea  must  have  receded  from  the 
land,  for  the  town  was  some  four  miles  inland.  I  have  forgotten 
the  name  of  the  place,  but  it  was  quite  a  town — some  two  or  three 
thousand  inhabitants.  The  smell  of  the  oysters  on  the  sea  beach, 
I  remember,  was  overpowering.  Thousands  and  thousands  of 
bushels  had  been  left  to  rot.  Our  harvest  of  pearls  here  was 
so  large  that  Winterstein  resolved  to  go  back  to  'Frisco  at  once 
and  market  his  goods.  We  were  all  tired  of  fish  and  biscuits, 
varied  with  sow-belly  fiery  with  salt  and  black  with  age. 

The  return  trip  was  just  as  uneventful  as  the  voyage  out. 
Winterstein's  profits  were  beyond  all  his  former  experiences. 
After  paying  all  expenses,  giving  me  my  tenth,  and  dividing 
another  tenth  between  the  two  mates,  he  cleared  up  something 
like  six  thousand  dollars  for  two  month's  work. 

He  was  naturally  eager  to  get  to  sea  again,  but  there  was  a 
flil'ticuliy.  hose  found,  that  her  sister  had  left  Sacramento,  and 
had  come  to  live  in  'Frisco.  She  had  got  work,  too,  I  gathered, 
in  a  shop  and  refused  absolutely  to  be  a  schoolgirl  any  longer 
or  to  accept  her  sister's  advice.  Rose  was  anxious  about  her 
and  resolved  to  take  her  on  board  with  us  the  next  cruise.  But 
for  a  long  time  Miss  Daisy  refused  to  come:  she  preferred,  it 
appeared,  to  be  entirely  on  her  own  and  it  was  only  when  Winter- 
stein joined  Rose  in  solicitation  that  she  finally  consented.  1  was 
rather  eager  to  see  this  very  self-willed  and  independent  young 
lady. 

I  was  quite  ready  for  another  trip.  It  would  please  my  mother, 
I  thought,  if  I  went  back  with  a  couple  of  thousand  dollars  in 
my  pocket,  and  I  had  got  my  black  pearls  strung  as  a  necklace 
for  Rose. 

Winterstein  warned  me  that  the  next  trip  would  perhaps  not 
be  so  profitable,  as  he  would  leave  out  the  chief  places,  which 
he  had  already  touched  at,  and  go  to  the  more  remote  stations. 

"Pearling,"  he  said,  "is  like  everything  else  in  life — the  easiest 
work  is  the  best  paid."  His  philosophy  was  not  very  deep  though 
his  observation  was  exact  enough. 

We  arranged  to  start  one  afternoon.  I  had  been  in  town 
making  purchases.  It  was  wretched  weather.  A  Nor'easter  had 
sprung  up  and  blew  sand  through  the  streets  in  clouds.  I  only 
hoped  that  the  departure  would  be  postponed.  I  found  Winter- 
stein waiting  impatiently  for  me,  and  his  wife's  sister,  too,  was 
on  deck  in  spite  of  the  rough  weather.  Winterstein  introduced 
me  to  her.  Daisy  O'Connor  did  not  make  much  impression  on 
me  at  first ;  she  was  girlish-young  and  did  not  seem  to  be  any- 
thing like  so  good-looking  as  her  sister.  True,  she  had  large 
dark-brown  eyes  and  good  features,  but  she  was  smaller  than 
Rose,  and  without  Rose's  brilliant  coloring  or  charm  of  appeal. 
She  treated  me  rather  coolly,  I  thought.  Winterstein  seemed  to 
be  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  off. 

"Why  not  put  off  going  till  to-morrow?"  I  asked.  "As  soon 
as  we  get  outside  she'll  duck  into  it  hialfway  up  her  jib." 

"To-morrow's  Friday,"  remarked  Miss  Daisy. 


A  Daluutek  01-  Eve  27 


"Surely  you're  not  superstitous?"  I  laughed. 
"Yes,    I    am,"    replied    the    girl,    and    a    peculiar    character    of 
decision  came  into  her  face  and  voice. 
"You  know  the  old  rhyme?" 
She  questioned  me  with  a  look,  and  I  repeated  the  old  chanty : 

Monday  for  health 
And  Tuesday  for  wealth 
And  Wednesday  the  best  day  of  all, 
Thursday  for  losses » 
tAnd  Friday  for  crosses 
And  Saturday  no  day  at  all  .  .  . 

"Thursday  will  be  a  bad  start,"  I  added. 

"I  like  a  bad  start,"  she  retorted :  "a  good  start  often  means 
a  bad  ending."     She  spoke  bitterly,  I  thought. 

"A  resolute  little  thing,"  I  said  to  myself  carelessly,  while 
getting  into  my  sea-togs. 

In  five  minutes  the  anchor  was  up  and  the  sails  set  and  we 
were  beating  out  to  sea  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale.  In  the  bay  the 
wind  came  in  gusts,  but  as  we  held  towards  Lime  Point  it  settled 
down  to  a  steady  drive  which  heeled  us  over  till  the  lee  scuppers 
were  under  water.  Every  moment  it  blew  harder.  When  we 
went  about  and  opened  out  the  Golden  Gate,  The  Rose  went 
over,  over  till  it  looked  as  if  she  would  turn  turtle.  I  laid  hold 
of  the  main  rigging  to  keep  my  feet  and  get  the  spindrift  out  of 
my  eyes.  Ten  feet  from  me  was  the  girl  with  one  hand  on  a  stay, 
her  slight  figure  braced  against  the  gale,  evidently  enjoying  the 
experience.  A  different  voyage  from  the  first,  I  thought  to 
myself,  and  under  different  auspices.  But  the  work  and  danger 
stopped  thought.  As  soon  as  we  were  out  of  the  Golden  Gate 
and  clear  of  Point  Bonita  the  sea  began  to  pile  up  and  break  in 
masses  on  the  bar.  We  were  in  for  a  dirty  night.  In  five  minutes 
we  were  all  wet  to  the  skin.  The  girl  had  gone  below.  The 
companion,  skylights  and  hatches  were  all  battened  down  and 
made  snug  and  not  a  moment  too  soon.  The  sea  on  the  bar  was 
terrific:  again  and  again  the  green  water  buried  the  decks,  but  as 
soon  as  we  had  got  outside  and  turned  her  bows  southward,  the 
gale  came  fair  on  the  quarter  and  the  little  "saucer"  as  I  called 
The  Rose  made  good  weather  of  it,  lifting  easily  to  the  great 
combers  and  swooping  along  their  shoulders  into  the  night,  for 
all  the  world  like  some  white  sea-bird. 

The  coming  on  board  of  Daisy  O'Connor  altered  everything. 
I  was  too  young  at  the  time  to  explain,  or  even  understand  what 
was  taking  place.  The  interest  which  used  to  center  in  Rose 
and  Winterstein  and  abaft  the  companion,  now  followed  Daisy 
all  over  the  ship.  For  the  girl  was  never  long  in  one  place  and 
divided  her  favors  impartially  among  all  the  men  on  board.  Now 
she  walked  his  watch  talking  to  Crawford,  or  sat  discussing  a  book 
with  me.     She  was  less  with  Winterstein  than  with  any  of  us. 


Fkajvk  iHakbis 


which  was  not  remarked,  because  the  weather  still  continued 
boisterous  and  gave  him  a  good  deal  to  do  between  the  stateroom 
in  which  his  wife  spent  most  of  her  time  and  the  wave-swept  deck. 
In  every  way  this  cruise  was  different  from  the  first,  less 
pleasant,  if  more  exciting.  The  first  thing  I  noticed  was  that 
Donkin,  who  appeared  to  like  Winterstein  on  the  first  voyage, 
now  disliked  him.  Winterstein  spoke  sharply  to  him  one  day 
about  the  way  the  jib  was  sitting: 

"That  jib's  shivering,"  he  said,  "it's  not  set  flat,  take  a  pull 
at  it." 
Donkin  looked  at  him  and  said  sulkily :  * 

"That's  because  she's  steered  too  free.' 

"That's  all  you  know  about  it,"  replied  Winterstein  cheerfully, 
"at  any  rate  take  a  pull  at  the  sheet." 

The  look  of  contempt  and  anger  which  Donkin  threw  at  the 
skipper  surprised  and  shocked  me.  I  did  not  even  then  notice 
that  Daisy  was  standing  to  windward  almost  between  them.  It 
only  occured  to  me  long  afterwards.  The  Rose,  which  had  been 
the  most  comfortable  craft  in  the  world,  had  become  an  ordinary 
sort  of  vessel. 

The  weather  was  very  unsettled;  usually  we  had  more  than 
enough  wind  and  a  heavy  lop  of  sea,  and  the  little  saucer,  tossed 
about  like  a  cork. 

Three  days  out  of  four  Rose  O'Connor  kept  to  her  berth,  and 
never  showed  at  all  even  at  meal  times,  and  Daisy  O'Connor  took 
her  place  on  the  deck  and  in  the  cabin  as  well.  Day  after  day 
Winterstein  and  I  lunched  with  her  alone.  The  door  leading  mto 
Rose's  stateroom  was  generally  closed.  It  was  impossible  not 
to  be  interested  in  Daisy.  She  was  very  intelligent  and  self- 
centered,  and  as  reserved  as  Rose  was  ingenuous  and  open,  bhe 
struck  me  as  being  much  older  than  Rose.  She  was  a  sort  of 
enigma,  and  I  could  not  help  wanting  to  fmd  the  key  to  it  bhe 
neler  praised  or  complimented  one  as  Rose  did;  her  praise  was 
a  word  or  two,  which  seemed  wrung  from  her,  a  tantalizing, 
proud  creature.  .    , 

One  day  we  were  running  along  under  some  bluffs;  the  wind 
was  light  and  fitful;  we  had  all  the  plain  sails  set.  Rose  was 
on  deck,  seated  in  a  cane  arm-chair  to  windward  of  the  companion. 
Winterstein  was  a  consummate  seaman,  and  that  day  seemed  a 
little  anxious;  he  kept  running  down  to  look  at  the  barometer, 
and  had  a  word  or  two  with"  Crawford,  I  remembered^  afterwards 
Neither  of  them  seemed  to  like  the  look  of  the  weather.  I  paid 
stnall  attention  to  externals,  for  Daisy  was  walking  the  deck 
with  me,  and  T  was  telling  her  how  I  intended  to  put  up  my 
shingle  in  New  York  that  winter  and  start  my  law  office  She 
was  looking  her  very  best  and  I  had  begun  to  wonder  whether 
she  was  not  even  more  attractive  than  her  sister.  When  she  got 
excited   or  when  the  wind  blew  a  little  sharply,  her  white  skin 


A    I>ArGllTKR  OF   KVK  29 


would  take  on  the  faint  pink  tinge  of  a  sea-shell,  and  when  in- 
terested her  eyes  would  grow  large  and  deepen  in  color.  Al- 
together I  was  beginning  to  think  her  fascinating.  Unconsciously 
I  was  transferring  to  her  my  old  allegiance  to  Rose.  Rose  was 
not  at  her  best  this  cruise;  she  looked  washed  out  and  pale; 
she  did  what  she  could,  but  the  bad  weather  was  against  her. 
Clearly  the  spiritual  center  of  gravity,  so  to  speak,  of  the  vessel, 
had  changed,  and  I  certainly  was  not  blind  to  the  fact  that  Daisy 
gave  me  more  of  her  time  than  she  gave  to  anyone  else,  though 
she  would  often  have  long  talks  with  Donkin.  The  person  she 
spent  least  time  with  was  distinctly  Winterstein. 

While  we  were  walking  up  and  down  talking,  the  wind  suddenly 
ceased,  and  the  little  craft  shot  up  at  once  on  an  even  keel  and 
set  Rose's  chair  sliding.  It  was  stopped  by  Winterstein,  who 
took  his  wife  below,  and  as  we  resumed  our  walk  again  I  noticed 
that  the  look  Daisy  threw  at  her  sister  was  more  than  indifferent ; 
there  was  contempt  in  it.  In  a  minute  or  two  Winterstein  came 
up  again  and  stood  near  the  main  sheet  and  every  now 'and  then 
we  passed  him.  The  wind  was  blowing  again  steadily,  and  the 
schooner  heeled  over  under  it  and  all  went  on  as  before.  Suddenly, 
without  any  warning,  the  wind  veered  round  and  blew  from 
almost  the  opposite  point  of  the  compass.  With  a  slash  and  crash 
the  sails  came  flapping  over  our  heads  and  the  boom  smashed 
inboard,  as  if  we  were  going  to  gibe.  I  caught  the  companion 
to  hold  myself.  Daisy  was  thrown  past  me  and  would  have 
had  a  nasty  fall,  had  not  Winterstein  caught  her  in  his  arms.  She 
tore  herself  loose  angrily,  and  he  sprang  to  the  mainsheet  and 
drew  it  taut  and  stopped  the  boom  from  going  over.  The  helms- 
man, Crawford,  had  been  almost  as  quick.  No  sooner  had  the 
squall  struck  us  than  he  put  the  helm  up  and  the  next  moment 
The  Rose's  bow  fell  off  and  her  sails  filled  again  and  she  went  on 
as  before.  In  the  nick  of  time  Winterstein  eased  away  the  main- 
sail. 

The  fine  thing  in  the  occurence  was  Winterstein's  extra- 
ordinary speed  and  strength.  There  he  stood  holding  the  main- 
sheet,  his  magnificent  athlete's  figure  etched  against  the  sky. 
Before  I  had  taken  in  his  splendid  unconscious  pose,  Daisy  made 
an  inarticulate  exclamation  as  if  she  had  caught  her  breath;  but 
when  I  looked  at  her,  her  face  was  as  composed  as  usual  and 
without  expression. 

I  thought  at  the  time  that  the  weather  was  chiefly  responsible 
for  the  change  in  the  moral  atmosphere.  It  is  impossible  to  be 
good-tempered  if  you  are  wet  through  by  day  and  up  half  the 
night  shortening  sail  or  ready  to  shorten  it.  For  the  schooner 
after  all.  was  only  a  small  craft,  and  heavily  sparred  even  for 
summer  weather.  The  sails,  it  was  evident,  were  too  big  for  her, 
though  Winterstein  declared  he  had  never  seen  such  weather  in 
September.  I  had  never  had  harder  work.  Three  days  out  of 
the  four  we  worked  all  day  long  and  half  through  the  night.  The 
little  craft  was  undermanned.  And  though  we  were  all  strong, 
five  or  six  pairs  of  hands  cannot  do  the  work  of  ten  or  twelve, 


•^0  Frank  Harris 


and  no  man  can  be  in  two  places  at  once.  Our  tempers  began  to 
get  ragged. 

On  the  first  trip  Crawford  had  been  a  great  friend  of  mine; 
he  was  really  a  fine  sailor  and  intelligent  besides,  and  whenever 
I  wanted  to  know  anything,  I  used  to  go  and  talk  with  him,  and 
even  in  'Frisco  I  took  him  out  with  me  to  the  theatre  once  or 
twice,  and  was  very  much  amused  by  his  shrewd  comments.  But 
one  day  he  called  me  to  hielp  him  hauling  in  the  jib. 

"Bear  a  hand,  damn  you,"  he  cried.     I  was  amazed. 

"What's  the  matter,  Crawford?"  I  said  afterward,  but  he  turned 
on  his  heel  and  muttered  something'  about  "lazy"  in  such  a  tone 
that  I  replied : 

"Lazy  or  not,  you  had  better  curse  someone  ^Ise." 

But  afterwards,  in  cool  blood,  I  could  not  help  asking  myself 
what  it  all  meant.  I  could  find  no  reason  for  Crawford's  change 
of  manner.  "Lazy"  stuck  in  my  mind.  The  day  before  had  been 
fine  and  I  had  sat  in  a  chair  near  Daisy,  and  read  Whittier  to  her, 
but  that  could  have  nothing  to  do  with  Crawford  I  decided,  who 
seemed  to  me  quite  old :  he  must  have  been  nearly  forty. 

The  weather  made  little  difference  to  Daisy.  She  was  up  on 
<|eck  in  all  weathers,  and  seemed  fairly  to  revel  in  a  hard  gale. 
When  it  was  dry  she  used  to  wear  a  tight-knitted  thing,  like  a 
long  blue  jersey,  which  outlined  her  slight  figure,  and  when  it 
was  wet  she  would  put  on  a  waterproof,  and  tuck  her  hair  inside 
a  close  hood,  which  seemed  to  frame  her  face  lovingly;  I  liked 
her  best  when  it  simply  blew  hard,  and  we  could  walk  about 
and  talk. 

About  this  time  I  began  to  notice  that  Donkin  was  trying  in 
his  uncouth  way  to  make  up  to  her.  He  seized  every  opportunity 
of  talking  to  her  and  advising  her.  It  was  a  remark  of  Crawford's 
that  opened  my  eyes.  They  were  standing  together  chatting  one 
day  when  Crawford  looked  at  me  over  his  shoulder  and  said: 

"She  does  not  care  for  him  any  more  than  she  cares  for  the 
mainmast,  but  the  big  fool  thinks  she  does." 

A  pang  of  surprise  and  anger  told  me  that  I  cared  more  than 
I  admitted  to  myself.  The  idea  of  Donkin,  great,  ugly,  sullen 
Donkin,  side  by  side  with  that  beauty  and  fine  intelligence. 

"Beauty  and  the  beast,"  I  said.  Crawford  looked  at  me  and 
turned  aside :  I  realized  that  I  had  spoken  bitterly. 

All  this  time  there  seemed  to  be  less  change  in  Winterstein 
than  in  any  of  the  rest  of  us.  Day  after  day  and  night  after  night 
he  did  two  or  three  men's  work,  and  did  not  seem  to  feel  fatigue 
or  need  sleep.  He  was  helped,  of  course,  by  his  magnificent 
health  and  strength.  He  appeared  to  take  it  as  a  matter  of  course 
that  I  should  monopolize  Daisy,  and  we  talked  together  at  meal 
times  almost  as  if  he  were  not  in  the  cabin.  Our  talk  was  mostly 
of  books  and  works  of  art  in  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
join.  He  listened  indeed,  but  could  hardly  expect  to  interest  her 
in  books  as  I  could.  Sometimes  I  read  scraps  of  Shelley  or 
Swinburne  to  her,  and  it  was  a  treat  to  see  her  face  flush  and 
change  with  the  varying  emotions.  Her  eyes  were  extraordinary ; 
they  drew  the  very  soul  out  of  one  and  tempted  one  perpetually 


A  Dai'Ohter  of  Kve  31 


to  more  passionate  expression.  Talks  begun  in  the  cabin  continued 
with  us  on  deck.  No  one  made  me  talk  as  she  did.  She  was 
something  more  than  a  sympathetic  listener.  She  made  one  want 
to  draw  forth  her  interest  or  rare  word  of  praise.  But  if  she 
showed  intense  emotion  about  a  piece  of  verse  or  some  wonderful 
cloud-effect,  her  interest  was  always  impersonal.  As  soon  as  the 
talk  became  at  all  sentimental  she  would  break  it  off  and  her 
eyes  would  grow  inexpressive  as  brown  stones. 

After  we  had  rounded  the  peninsula  and  turned  into  the  Gulf, 
the  weather  suddenly  improved.  Day  after  day  we  floated  along 
with  a  light  breeze  under  a  pale-blue  sky,  tremulous  with  excess 
of  light.  Day  after  day  now  Rose  came  up  and  we  had  tea  and 
even  dinner  on  deck.  But  somehow  or  other  Rose  never  regained 
her  position :  we  liked  her  and  turned  to  her,  attracted  by  her 
smiling  good  humor,  but  the  spiritual  interest  of  the  ship  was 
centered  in  her  sister.  Everything  in  Rose  was  open,  comprehen- 
sible, from  her  flowerlike  beauty  to  her  manifest  devotion  to 
Winterstein,  but  Daisy  was  a  closed  book,  a  tantalizing  puzzle ; 
for  all  of  us  she  had  the  charm  of  the  unknown  and  unexplored. 
She  entered  into  no  direct  competition  with  her  sister ;  she  simply 
kept  apart  as  a  rival  queen  and  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  her 
court  was  better  attended.  You  flattered  Rose  and  paid  com- 
pliments to  her,  the  other  you  studied  and  sought  to  interest. 
Rose  was  always  more  than  fair  to  her  sister.  In  fact  she  praised 
her  and  made  up  to  her  timidly,  like  the  rest  of  us.  One  day 
Winterstein  had  gone  down  for  a  pair  of  loose  boots  for  his 
wife,  as  she  wanted  to  walk.  While  he  put  the  boots  on  we 
naturally  talked  of  feet.  I  praised  Rose's  feet,  but  she  would  not 
have  it: 

"My  feet  are  huge,"  she  said,  "in  comparison  to  Daisy's.  I  take 
fours  and  she  takes  ones,  don't  you,  Daisy?     Show  them." 

Daisy  looked  at  her  with  a  little  smile,  but  did  not  follow  her 
advice. 

"Come,  Daisy,  show  us,"  I  said. 

She  turned  smiling  inscrutable  eyes  on  me  and  that  was  all. 
Suddenly  Winterstein  laughed. 

"Daisy  wants  to  spare  us,"  he  said.     Heir  face  hardened. 

Daisy  does  not  think  it  a  matter  of  any  moment,"  she  said,  "but 
if  you  are  all  agreed,  thjere  you  are,"  and  she  pulled  her  feet 
together  and  drew  up  her  skirts  deliberately,  showing  tiny  feet 
and  two  nervous,  slight  ankles.  But  almost  at  the  same  moment 
she  sprang  to  her  feet : 

"Are. you  coming?"  she  threw  to  me,  and  walked  down  the  deck. 

"What  wonderful  feet  you  have,'  I  said,  "almost  too  small  for 
your  figure." 

"Why  should  very  small  feet  and  hands  be  admired?"  she  said, 
turning  to  me. 

I  could  not  give  her  the  answer  that  came  into  my  mind,  and 
hesitated,  seeking  some  other  explanation. 

"It's  traditional.  ...  I  hardly  know,"  I  hesitated  and  sprang 
to  knowledge  for  evasion.  "All  Greek  statues  of  women  have 
large  feet,"  I  remarked. 


Frank  Harris 


"But  there  must  be  a  reason,"  slie  said,  and  her  eyes  probed 
mine. 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  feeHng  annoyed  with  myself  for  getting  red. 
She  took  it  all  in  coolly  and  then  changed  the'  conversation, 
perhaps  she  understood  more  than  she  admitted. 

In  the  Gulf  we  called  at  various  small  stations  and  did  fairly 
well  with  the  pearls.  Rose  had  given  Daisy  my  black  pearl  neck- 
lace, I  noticed:  it  seemed  strange  to  me  that  all  the  affection 
should  be  on  Rose's  side. 

The  weather  got  finer  an'S  finer :  it  became  so  hot  indeed  that 
Winterstein  fixed  up  an  awning  from  the  companion  to  the  poop. 
We  used  to  keep  the  awning  cool  by  throwing  a  couple  of  buckets 
of  water  on  it  before  Rose  came  on  deck,  for  she  felt  the  heat 
intensely. 

About  this  time  I  began  to  guess  that  her  paleness  and  languor 
had  a  cause,  and  we  all  felt  more  kindly  towards  her  if  that  were 
possible.  But  the  fact  itself  seemed  to  set  her  more  and  more 
apart,  putting  her  outside  our  circle.  The  heat  seemed  to  affect 
Daisy  no  more  than  it  affected  the  rest  of  us.  I  used  to  get  up 
nearly  every  morning  and  bathe,  and  when  there  was  a  wind 
Donkin  or  Crawford  used  to  throw  a  bucket  of  water  over  me 
and  I  hopped  about  on  the  for'castle  to  dry  myself.  If  there  was 
no  wind  I  went  overboard,  keeping  near  the  vessel  because  of  the 
sharks.  One  day  I  liad  just  run  up  after  my  bath,  I  was  still 
drying  my  head,  when  Daisy  came  on  deck. 

"Oh,  how  I  should  like  a  swim,"  she  said.  "I've  been  so  hot 
in  that  stewy  cabin." 

She  did  not  look  hot,  she  was  always  the  picture  of  neatness. 
But  Donkin  put  his  oar  in  at  once. 

"Nothing  easier,  Miss  Daisy." 

When  had  he  commenced '  calling  her  by  her  Christian  name, 
I  wondered  angrily. 

"Oh,  but  the  sharks,"  she  said.  "If  one  were  to  bite  a  foot 
off,  or  a  hand,  I  should  kill  myself.  I  do  not  mind  death,  but  I 
would  not  be  deformed  for  anything." 

"We  could  rig  a  sail  out  on  the  yard,  so  that  you  could  have 
four  feet  of  water,  and  yet  be  perfectly  safe,"  he  replied. 

"Oh,  how  splendid,"  she  said,  "I  wish  you  would." 

"In  ten  minutes,  Miss  Daisy,"  he  said,  and  turned  away  to  the 
work,  Crawford  following  at  his  heels. 

"I  must  go  down  and  get  ready,"  she  said,  "but  won't  you  come 
in  with  me,  you  won't  mind  bathing  again,  it  will  give  mr 
courage  ?" 

"I  have  no  bathing  things,"  I  said,  "but  I  can  probably  get  a 
suit  ready  for  to-morrow." 

"What  a  pity,"  she  pouted,  "bathing  alone  is  no  fun.  Can't  you 
make  something  do?" 

"I  daresay  I  can,"  I  replied.  JM'^ 

"Please,"  and  she  disappeared  down  the  companion.  «J' 

I  went  below  and  got  myself  ready  with  a  loose  flannel  shirt, 
and  a  pair  of  duck  trousers  cut  off  at  the  knee,  promising  myself 
to  hem  them  round  next  day.     The  rummaging  about  took  mei 


A  Daughter  of  Eve  33 


some  time,  and  when  I  came  on  deck  Daisy  was  already  waiting 
and  all  the  preparations  had  been  made.  A  yard  had  been  sheered 
out  from  the  ship  and  stayed  against  the  bulwark  and  companion. 
From  the  end  of  it  a  square  sail  had  been  let  down  by  a  cross 
yard  at  the  end  of  the  spar.  The  sail  dipped  into  the  water  and 
formed  a  bath  of  perhaps  twenty  feet  long,  fifteen  feet  broad  and 
four  or  five  in  depth.  The  gangway  opened  into  the  middle  of  it, 
and  the  little  ladder  led  down  to  the  water's  edge.  When  I  came 
up,  Daisy  was  thanking  them. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  perfect  bath  ?"  she  said,  turning  to 
me.  "Isn't  it  clever  of  then>.  I  think  you  sailors,"  and  she  looked 
into  Donkin's  eyes,  "can  just  do  anything."  (The  fellow's  weather- 
beaten  hide  flushed  to  brick-red.)  "It  was  Mr.  Crawford,"  she 
added,  "who  thought  of  putting  the  sail  by  the  gangway.  He 
thinks  of  everything." 

She  was  diabolically  clever;  for  the  praise  was  deserved.  Craw- 
ford's white  face  paled  and  he  fidgetted  under  her  eyes. 

Daisy  had  on  a  little  green  cap,  into  which  she  had  tucked  her 
hair,  and  a  great  white  bath  sheet.  Winterstein  came  up  from 
below  and  stood  close  by. 

"Will  you  go  first?"  I  said. 

She  turned  and  undid  the  tapes  at  her  neck,  and  let  the  bath 
towel  slip  on  to  the  white  deck.  She  was  in  pale  green  with 
knickerbockers ;  a  little  tunic  cut  low  at  the  neck  fell  over  her 
hips.  Her  arms  were  bare,  and  her  legs  from  the  knees  down. 
Everything  suited  her.  She  was  adorable — girl  and  woman  in 
one.  The  next  moment  she  had  slid  down  the  ladder  into  the  sea 
and  was  swimming  about.  In  a  moment  I  joined  her,  and  then 
she  explained  to  me  that  she  could  never  float. 

"My  feet  always  go  down,"  she  said,  "and  before  I  know  it 
I  am  standing  on  my  feet  upright  in  the  water."  Again  and 
again  she  tried  to  float,  but  always  with  the  same  result.  I 
wondered  if  she  knew  how  provocative  she  was,  as  she  lay  there 
with  the  men  leaning  down  from  the  bulwarks,  all  staring  at  her 
with  hot  eyes.  When  she  came  on  deck  she  did  not  disappear 
at  once  into  the  bath  cloak,  which  Donkin  held  ready  for  her. 
She  stood  there  among  the  men  on  deck  in  her  semi-nudity,  and 
cried: 

"Oh,  I  have  enjoyed  myself;  it  has  been  perfect.  I  am  so  much 
obliged  to  you,"  she  said,  turning  to  Donkin,  "and  to  you,  too, 
Mr.  Crawfrd." 

I  noticed  that  Dyer  at  the  helm  devoured  her  with  his  eyes 
while  Abraham's  black  face  grinned  from  the  for'castle  hatch. 

•"It  was  kind  of  all  of  you,"  she  went  on,  "the  water  was  not 
a  bit  cold.  You  will  put  the  sail  down  to-morrow,  won't  you?" 
she  said  to  Donkin,  as  he  stretched  her  arm  backwards  over  her 
head  to  get  the  cloak.  The  movement  threw  her  little  breasts 
upward  into  sharp  relief;  the  next  moment  she  had  drawn  the 
cloak  about  her  with  a  little  gay  laugh  and  disappeared  down 
the  companionway.  It  was  as  if  the  sun  had  gone  out.  For  a 
moment  we  men  stared  at  each  other,  and  then  I  went  forward 
to  change  my  things  while  Donkin  and  Crawford  busied  them- 


34  Frank  H arris 


selves  getting  in  the  sail.     Suddenly  I  heard  Winterstein's  voice : 

"Here,  you  Abraham,  bear  a  hand  with  the  swab  here  and  dry 
up  this  water.  As  you've  come  on  deck  you  may  as  well  do 
something."  I  turned  in  surprise,  the  tone  was  strangely  hard  and 
menacing,  utterly  unlike  Winterstein,  but  I  did  not  catch  a  glimpse 
of  his  face,  for  as  soon  as  he  had  given  the  order  he  turned  away 
to  stare  at  the  land  over  the  poop. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all,  I  asked  myself,  but  I  soon  put 
the  query  out  of  my  head,  because  I  did  not  want  to  dull  the  vivid 
image  of  the  girl's  beautiful  figure  which  had  been  revealed  to  me. 
Was  anyone  else  as  lovely?  I  asked  myself.  Her  feet  were  like 
baby  feet.  The  marks  of  sex  in  her  figure  were  so  slight  that 
they  merely  accentuated  the  beauty  of  the  slim  round  outlines. 
What  provocation  in  the  crooked  girlish  arms,  what  a  challenge 
in  the  inscrutable  mutinous  eyes.  She  had  been  delightful  to  me 
in  the  sea :  had  turned  to  me  familiarly  for  help ;  I  had  touched 
her  firm  flesh  again  and  again,  and  I  was  intoxicated  with  her 
as  with  whie. 

I  did  not  see  Daisy  again  that  morning  until  lunchtime,  or 
dinner  as  we  called  it.  I  had  fished  persistently  and  called  out 
loudly  whenever  I  had  the  opportunity,  hoping  that  it  would  bring 
her  on  deck,  for  she  revelled  in  fishing,  and  was  easily  the 
champion  because  all  the  men  vied  with  each  other  in  picking  the 
most  attractive  baits  for  her.  In  this'  game  Crawford  was  easily 
first.  He  brought  up  a  piece  of  red  flannel  one  day,  cut  into  the 
shape  of  a  narrow  tongue;  on  the  other  side  of  it  he  had  sewn  a 
glittering  piece  of  white  satin.  Equipped  with  this  bait  no  one 
had  a  chance  with  Daisy.  She  had  caught  three  fish  to  my  one, 
and  as  Donkin  or  Crawford  was  always  at  hand  to  pull  up  the 
wet  line  for  her  and  take  the  hook  from  the  fish  and  put  the  bait 
straight  again  she  had  little  to  do  except  amuse  herself. 

At!  lunch  she  took  all  my  compliments  in  complete  silence. 

"You  would  be  able  to  float,"  I  insisted,  "if  you  would  arch 
your  back  and  keep  your  head  right  back." 

But  she  would  not  have  it. 

"I  do  arch  my  bacic  and  put  my  head  right  back,  but  my  feet 
pull  me  upright." 

"Such-  tiny  feet,"  I  replied,  "have  not  the  power  to  pull  anyone 
down. 

"You  shall  try,  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "I  will  keep  as  rigid 
as  you  please,  and  you  shall  put  your  hand  under  my  back  to  see 
whether  I  am  stiff." 

Winterstein  suddenly  spoke: 

"Why  don't  you  put  that  French  thing  on,  that  knitted  thing 
instead  of  the  tunic?" 

"Do  you  mean  the  maillot?"  she  said  slowly,  looking  him 
straight  in  the  eyes. 

He  nodded.  His  expression  I  remembered  afterward  was  a 
little  strained. 

"I  have  not  worn  it,"  she  said  with  her  eyes  on  the  cloth,  "since 
I  bathed  at  the  Cliff  House,  but  as  you  wish  it,"  she  added  slowly, 
"I  will  put  it  on,"  and  she  turned  away  indifferently.    There  was 


A  Dauciiter  of  Eve 


35 


a  tension  in  the  air,  but  not  on  her  side  I  tliought  as  much  as  on 
his,  but  why? 

"What  is  the  maillot  like?"  I  said,  showing  her  that  I  knew 
the  French  word. 

"It's  a  knitted  thing,"  she  said ;  "all  the  girls  used  to  wear  them 
and  little  French  slippers.  You  know  we  have  parties  in  the 
baths.  I  have  got  all  the  things  still.  I'll  put  them  on  to-moorow. 
I  think  they  suit  me.  Some  people  used  to  say  so,"  she  added 
slowly. 

Winterstein  got  up,  and  went  into  his  wife's  bed-room  for 
something  or  other.  When  he  returned  I  was  leaving  the  cabin. 
Daisy  called  to  me  on  the  way  up  that  she  would  bring  Browning 
with  her.  She  was  sensitive  to  beauty  of  words  or  music  and 
extraordinarily  intelligent :  I  delighted  to  read  her  my  favorite 
poems. 

If  I  were  a  story-teller  I'd  try  to  make  all  you  people  feel  what 
we  felt  next  morning.  The  weather  was  perfect,  the  sea  like 
glass :  the  little  schooner  seemed  to  breathe  gently  as  if  sleeping 
on  the  oily  swell.  Rose  came  on  deck  early  and  established  herself 
under  the  awning.  I  thought  that  her  presence  would  make  a 
difference,  would  act  as  a  restraint  on  her  sister  and  I  wished 
her  away.  I  had  got  my  bathing  things  in  some  sort  of  order  the 
evening  before.  I  rather  fancied  myself  in  them.  I  had  not  been 
on  deck  more  than  five  minutes  when  I  noticed  a  sort  of  subdued 
excitement  in  everyone.  All  the  men  were  on  deck  and  they  had 
all  rigged  themselves  out  more  or  less.  Donkin  was  shaved  and 
so  was  Crawford,  Dyer  limped  about  in  clean  ducks,  and  Abraham 
Lincoln  had  mounted  a  large  white  collar  with  a  scarlet  and  blue 
tie.  Winterstein  alone  had  made  no  change.  He  talked  to  his 
wife  while  moving  about  whistling  for  wind  as  if  indifferent.  .  .  . 

For  the  first  time  I  noticed  clearly  that  Rose  was  soon  to  became 
a  mother.  Her  face  was  a  little  white  and  drawn,  and  when  she 
tried  once  or  twice  to  take  a  few  turns  with  Winterstein  you 
could  see  that  her  figure  had  altered  in  spite  of  the  loose  dress 
she  wore.  I  was  looking  over  the  little  lifeboat  which  we  carried 
on  the  davit  amidship  when  I  heard  Daisy's  voice. 

"What  a  perfect  day,"  she  said,  "and  how  delightful  everything 
looks.    I  know  I  shall  enjoy  the  bath."  ^ 

Naturally  I  went  towards  her.  She  was  standing  close  to  the 
companion.  Rose  was  sitting  a  yard  or  so  behind  it  with  her 
chair  against  the  mahagony  top.  Everyone  was  on  the  tiptoe  of 
excitement.  Donkin,  Crawford,  Abraham  Lincoln,  all  moved  like 
steel  nibs  toward  the  magnet,  except  Winterstein.  The  girl  had 
her  back  to  the  men.  Suddenly  she  opened  her  wrap  a  little  to 
show  herself  in  her  maillot  to  her  sister.  Winterstein  and  I  could 
not  help  seeing  her  as  well.  It  caught  my  breath.  For  one 
moment  I  thought  she  was  naked.  The  maillot  was  white;  the 
meshes  of  it  showed  the  rose-colored  skin  beneath.  She  looked 
like  an  ivory  statue  by  some  modern  French  artist :  she  was 
rounder,  more  woman-like  than  I  had  pictured  her  immaturity. 

"Oh,  Daisy,"  cried  Rose. 

"He  told  me  to  put   it  on,"   said   Daisy  defiantly   looking  at 


36  Fraxk  Harris 


Winterstein  while  drawing  the  cloak  about  her  again.  "You  used 
to  say  it  fitted  me  perfectly,"  she  added,  "and  liked  me  in  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Rose,  amiably,  leaning  back  and  closing  her  eyes, 
as  if  in  pain  or  weariness,  "it  does  suit  you,  but  somehow  or  other 
it  was  different  when  half  a  dozen  of  you  children  were  all  wear- 
ing them  in  the  bath ;  besides  you've  grown,  I  suppose,  and  it's 
in  the  open  and  men  about  ..." 

"I'll  take  it  off,"  said  Daisy  in  the  hard  clear  voice  which  I 
had  come  to  recognize  as  a  sign  of  annoyance. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Rose,  "I'd  bathe  in  it  now  I  had  it  on.  Go  on," 
she  said  smiling,  "the  dip  will  do  you  good." 

The  girl  turned  and  without  a  word  went  down  into  the  cabin. 
In  a  minute  or  two  she  appeared. 

"Will  you  go  down  first,"  she  said  to  me,  "and  I  will  dive  in." 

She  stood  in  the  gangway  with  the  shapeless  wrap  about  her. 
I  nodded,  for  my  mouth  was  dry,  and  without  more  ado,  threw 
myself  into  the  sea,  and  in  a  moment  was  standing  on  the  sail 
dashing  the  water  from  my  eyes.  Daisy  opened  the  wrap  slowly 
and  took  her  arms  out  of  the  sleeve  with  a  sort  of  serpentine 
movement,  infinitely  graceful  and  provocative.  She  had  put  on 
her  little  tunic  over  the  viaiUot.  I  was  glad  the  outline  was 
draped ;  but  having  seen  her  in  the  maillot  the  vision  of  her  form 
was  still  with  me  in  its  half-ripe  seduction.  But  being  hidden 
from  the  other  men  it  seemed  mine  and  private.  Yet  1  noticed 
that  Donkin  received  her  bathing  cloak  mechanically  without 
taking  his  eyes  off  her.  As  she  stood  above  me  she  swaj'ed  back- 
ward, threw  her  hands  above  her  head,  then  bent  gradually  for- 
ward— down,  down,  the  lines  of  her  flexible  young  body  changing 
every  moment  and  let  herself  glide  into  the  sea.  All  the  time 
sh«  stood  poised  on  the  deck  there  was  a  steel  band  of  hate  round 
my  chest.  I  do  not  think  the  girl  kncvv  what  she  was  doing.  I 
do  not  believe  she  could  have  imagined  the  rage  of  desire  her 
beauty  called  to  life  in  these  men  who  had  been  a  month  at  sea, 
eating  heartily  while  breathing  in  the  tonic  sea  air.  As  soon  as 
she  was  in  the  water  beside  me  all  anger  vanished;  she  seemed 
to  belong  to  me  then,  and  I  wondered  whether  she  liked  me  to 
touch  her;  at  any  rate  she  was  not  adverse  to  learning  anything 
I  suggested  and  naturally  I  was  fertile  in  suggestions. 

Suddenly  she  said  she  would  float;  she  would  arch  her  back 
and  put  her  head  back  as  far  as  she  could,  and  I  must  put  my 
hand  under  her  waist  and  support  her,  then  I  would  see  how  im- 
possible it  was  for  her  to  float.  I  did  what  I  was  told  without 
thinking,  and  at  first  she  floated  and  I  looked  into  her  face  and 
cried : 

"You  see,  you  see."  But  she  was  not  looking  at  me,  her  face 
was  set  hard,  there  was  a  sort  of  defiance  in  it.  I  followed  her 
glance  up  and  saw  Winterstein  leaning  over  the  bulwarks  gazing 
down  on  her.  1  seemed  to  catch  for  the  moment  a  sort  of  tension 
between  them  and  then  slowly  the  vaselike  outlines  of  her  hips 
sank  lower  into  the  water,  and  she  came  up  smiling: 

"See  how  my  feet  drag  me  down,"  she  .said,  pushing  her  right 


I 


A  Daughter  of  Eve  37 


foot  up  through  the  water  in  comic  dismay,  as  if  to  show  me  how 
heavy  it  was. 

Winterstein  had  left  the  bulwarks,  but  Donkin  was  looking 
down  at  her  and  Crawford  and  the  others  all  drinking  her  in  with 
greedy  eyes.  She  swam  about  a  little  and  then  climbed  up  the 
ladder  and  stood  at  the  top  of  it,  half  in  the  hot  sunshine,  and 
half  in  the  shade  of  the  awning — to  get  warm,  she  said.  My  foot 
was  on  th  lower  rung  of  the  ladder,  I  was  so  close  to  her  that 
I  could  see  every  line  of  her  body,  the  adorable  roundness,  and 
the  fine  nervous  grace  of  it.  I  could  scarcely  refrain  from  putting 
my  hands  on  her  as  she  stood  there  swaying  just  in  front  of  me, 
with  the  wet  tunic  clinging  to  her  like  skin  and  showing  all  her 
adorable  nudities. 

"It  is  too  delicious,"  she  said  with  a  little  shudder,  "the  water 
is  warmer  than  the  air.  The  air  makes  me  shiver,  but  the  water 
is  warm  like  new  milk.    You  should  come  and  bathe,  too,  Rose." 

"Put  on  your  wrap  and  change  quickly,  or  you'll  catch  cold," 
said  Rose,  who  had  picked  up  her  things  and  was  going  down  to 
the  cabin.     She  spoke  a  little  tartly,  I  thought. 

The  girl  turned  and  let  Donkin  wrap  the  bathing  cloak  about 
her  without  a  word.  I  caught  sight  of  her  as  she  turned,  and  the 
vision  of  her  is  with  me  still.  I've  wondered  since  if  there  ever 
was  a  more  perfect  figure,  or  if  anyone  else  could  be  so  slim, 
with  such  tiny  round  breasts  no"  larger  than  apples.  I  can  still 
see  the  dimples  in  her  arms  at  the  elbow  and  the  drips  of  water 
diamonding  the  rosy  skin  as  she  lifted  up  her  arms  to  take  the 
cloak  which  Donkin  was  holding. 

The  next  moment  she  had  vanished  down  the  companion.  I 
stepped  forward.  Donkin  and  Crawford  were  standing  close 
together  still  staring  after  the  girl.  As  she  disappeared  they 
turned  and  perhaps  by  accident  jostled  each  other:  in  a  flash  their 
jealous  hate  flamed.  Before  one  could  think  Donkin  was  holding 
Crawford  by  the  throat  while  Crawford  was  striking  him  in  the 
face  savagely.  The  next  moment  Winterstein  had  thrust  them 
apart. 

"Are  you  mad?"  he  said  to  Donkin  in  repressed  low  voice. 
"I'm  ashamed  of  you,"  he  added,  turning  to  Crawford  and  speak- 
ing more  naturally.  Donkin  glowered  sullenly  while  Crawford 
muttered  something  and  went  forward.  As  I  followed  him 
Lincoln's  blacke  face  went  down  the  forehatchway  and  Dyer 
turned  to  take  up  his  watch  again ;  but  not  before  I  had  noticed 
a  certain  antagonism  on  every  face;  they  all  reminded  me  of  a 
set  of  dogs  on  the  point  of  fighting — all  rigid,  with  bared  fangs 
and  hating  eyes. 

The  rest  of  the  day  passed  in  a  sort  of  stupor.  Rose  was  on 
deck  nearly  the  whole,  time,  Winterstein  always  in^  attendance. 
Daisy  and  I  walked  the  deck  a  good  while  together;  I  got  her 
to  say  she  liked  me,  but  when  I  pressed  her  to  say  how  much, 
he  only  laughed  and  changed  the  subject.  She  had  a  long  talk 
vith  Donkin  and  another  talk  with  Crawford;  she  even  managed 
to  smile  at  Dyer  and  transport  him  into  the  seventh  heaven  of 
delight.    For  the  first  time  I  began  to  realize  her  insatiate  vanity; 


38  Frank  iHarkis 


she  wanted  all  the  men  to  admire  her.  I  raged  against  her  in  my 
heart,  raged  the  more  because  I  was  in  the  toils.  I  would  have 
given  ten  years  of  my  life  to  have  been  able  to  have  taken  that 
slight  figure  in  my  arms,  to  have  crushed  those  little  breasts 
against  mine  and  kissed  the  flower  of  her  mouth. 

But  of  all  this  she  seemed  unconscious,  she  was  simply  herself, 
quiet,  aloof,  and  inscrutable  till  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  a 
little  breeze  sprang  up,  a  land  breeze  which  gave  the  light  schooner 
three  or  four  knots  an  hour — good  steering  way.  Then  she  had 
the  lines  up  and  fished  from  the  poop.  Donkin  and  myself  waited 
on  her,  while  Winterstein  walked  up  and  down  beside  his  wife 
from  the  poop  to  the  companion  and  from  the  companion  to  the 
poop  in  silence.  Dyer  steered  and  Abraham  Lincoln  came  grinning 
to  us  every  now  and  then  to  bring  fresh  bait  for  Miss  Daisy.  .  .  . 

The  catastrophe  came  with  startling  suddeness.  I  see  now  that 
it  must  have  come,  that  it  was  all  prepared,  inevitable.  Yet  the 
unexpectedness,  the  tragic  completeness  of  it  were  overwhelm- 
ing. It  seems  to  have  blotted  out  all  that  went  before  so  that 
I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  two  or  three  days  or  half  a  dozen 
days  later  than  the  bathing  or  not.  Anyhow  the  bathing  I  have 
described  was  the  last.  For  some  days  after  we  had  lively  breezes ; 
the  spar  had  to  be  taken  in  and  the  extemporized  bath  dismantled. 
We  had  called,  I  remember,  at  Mulege  near  Los  Coyotes,  and  had 
had  a  good  haul  of  pearls  and  a  lot  of  hard  work. 

One  afternoon  we  had  been  working  hard  and  had  had  to  row 
the  boat  for  four  or  five  miles  over  shallow  water  to  a  village 
where  the  inhabitants,  we  found,  had  collected  pearls  for  years 
and  years  and  had  never  before  been  visited.  The  bargaining 
was  interminable.  The  fisher-folk  had  no  standard  of  value.  One 
man  wanted  a  dollar  for  three  or  four  fine  pearls,  another  wanted 
fifty  dollars  for  an  insignificant  bad  specimen,  and  we  were  on 
the  strain  of  all  day  bargaining  and  cajoling.  I  was  tuckered  oiit 
when  I  got  into  the  boat  and  took  the  bow  oar  to  Donkin's  stroke 
while  Winterstein  sat  in  the  stern  "sheets.  I  think  Winterstein. 
too,  must  have  been  tired  and  exasperated,  for  he  scarcely  spoke 
all  the  way  to  the  schooner. 

When  we  got  on  board  a  six-knot  breeze  was  blowing.  After 
telling  us  to  keep  our  course,  Winterstein  went  below.  I  went 
down,  too,  and  had  a  sleep :  when  I  came  up  again  I  felt  refreshed 
and  vigorous. 

The  night  was  wonderfully  beautiful.  The  moon  rose  like  a 
crimson  wafer  through  a  thin  heat  mist,  but  soon  shook  herself 
clear  of  her  trailing  garments  and  walked  the  purple  like  a  queen. 
I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  the  moon's  radiance  lent  the 
edges  of  the  nearer  clouds  a  brownish  smoky  rose  tinge.  As  the 
night  wore  on  the  fleecy  round  clouds  gathered  closer  together 
like  silver  shields  hanging  heavily  against  the  blue  vault;  the 
moonlight  grew  fitful. 

When  I  went  down  Daisy  and  Winterstein  were  both  on  deck. 
They  were  standing  near  each  other  just  by  the  poop,  \yhen  I 
came  up  after  having  had   a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  biscuit  they 


A  Dalgiitkk  of  Evk  39 


were  still  talking  at  intervals.  She  was  sitting  on  the  companion 
while  he  stood  in  front  of  her  or  moved  away  and  then  came  back. 
I  went  forward  to  do  something  and  when  I  returned  they  were 
still  talking,  which  seemed  strange  to  me,  for  they  seldom  ex- 
changed more  than  a  word  or  two.  Every  now  and  then  she 
laughed,  and  the  laugh  was  hard  and  clear :  she  was  scornful  I 
thought.  They  seemed  so  preoccupied  that  I  was  annoyed  and 
would  not  join  them.  Abraham  Lincoln  at  the  tiller  was  almost 
out  of  earshot.  I  suppose  I  was  jealous.  I  noticed  that  when 
the  moon  came  out  from  the  darkening  clouds  they  were  some 
distance  apart,  but  as  soon  as  the  light  was  veiled  they  seemed 
close  together  again.  I  was  furious,  my  pride  prevented  me  going 
near  them,  yet  I  could  not  but  stare  toward  them  at  intervals, 
jealously  watchful.  Suddenly  while  1  was  a  little  to  windward, 
just  in  line  with  the  helmsman,  the  moon  came  out,  and  I  saw 
Winlerstein  take  Daisy's  head  quickly  in  his  hands  and  kiss  her 
on  the  lips ;  my  heart  had  stopped.  The  moon  showed  everything 
as  if  it  were  daylight.  I  took  a  quick  step  forward  when  just  as 
suddenly  I  became  aware  that  Rose  had  come  out  of  the  com- 
panion and  had  seen  her  husband  kising  her  sister. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  petrified.  I  heard  a  faint  exclamation, 
or  was  it  merely  her  breath  caught  in  a  gasp  and  strangled  ?  She 
turned  and  moved  across  the  deck  with  her  hand  across  her  face. 
She  struck  the  low  bulwark  and  there  was  a  splash  in  the  water. 
The  next  moment  Winterstein  had  sprung  to  the  side  and  plunged 
in  after  her.  The  second  splash  seemed  only  a  couple  of  seconds 
after  the  first.  I  jumped  to  the  helm  only  just  in  time;  for  the 
darky  had  let  it  slip  from  his  hands  and  was  staring  round  where 
Winterstein  disappeared.  I  crammed  the  tiller  hard  down, 
shouting : 

"Man  overboard,  man  overboard." 

The  next  moment  Crawford  sprang  on  deck.  The  little  schooner 
was  fluttering  in  the  wind;  she  came  about  with  a  jerk  just  as 
Crawford  and  the  darky  dropped  over  the  side  into  the  dingy  and 
began  rowing  back. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Donkin,  running  aft^ 

"Mrs.  Winterstein  fell  overboard  •  and  Winterstein  went  after 
her.    How  long  shall  we  take  to  get  back,  do  you  think?" 

"It  is  a  quarter  of  a  mile,"  he  replied,  while  loosening  a  life- 
buoy. 

"Then  we  must  pick  them  up?"  I  said. 

"Of  course,"  he  answered.  "I  guess  Winterstein's  a  good 
swimmer." 

"First  rate,"  I  replied,  but  my  heart  jvas  hurting  with  fear. 

At  this  moment  Daisy  passed  across  my  line  of  vision  going 
to  the  bulwarks  to  look  ahead.  The  moon  was  fu^J  out  and  the 
light  quite  strong  again.  I  looked  at  her  face  and  it  seemed  as  if 
she  were  excited,  expectant,  resolute ;  no  trace  of  horror,  or  fear. 
I  gasped  and  suspicion  came  to  me.  Could  it  be  that  she  had 
wished  for  it?     Her  sister — it  was  impossible. 

Two  minutes  more  and  we  were  alongside  the  boat  again. 
Crawford  had  everything  ready  as  usual  and  had  gone  to  the  very 


40  Fkank  Hakkis 


spot,  and  as  we  came  up  in  the  wind  beside  the  boat  I  left  the 
helm  to  the  nigger  and  leaned  over  the  bulwarks.  I  was  just  in 
time  to  see  Winterstein  come  to  the  surface  and  haul  himself  up 
by  the  stern  of  the  boat. 

He  stood  there  poised  for  a  moment,  and  then  hurled  himself 
into  the  sea  again  as  if  he  would  go  to  the  very  bottom.  My 
heart  sank :  he  had  not  found  her  yet. 

I  called  to  Crawford  to  know  if  he  had  seen  any  trace  of  Rose. 

"No  sign,"  he  replied,  "and  this  is  the  skipper's  fourth  or  fifth 
dive.    I  guess  it's  no  good." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  come  into  the  boat,"  he  said  a  moment 
later,"  "and  get  Winterstein  to  come  on  board.  He'll  kill  himself 
with  his  diving.  I've  never  known  a  man  keep  down  so  long; 
he  can't  do  it  again." 

I  jumped  into  the  boat,  and  a  couple  strokes  took  us  to  the 
spot  where  Winterstein  had  disappeared.  We  stared  down  on  the 
dark  surface,  but  there  was  not  a  sign  or  a  sound.  It  seemed 
incredible  that  any  man  should  be  able  to  stay  under  so  long. 

Suddenly  Crawford  cried,  "There  he  is,"  and  gave  a  couple  of 
quick  strokes  with  his  oar :  slowly  the  body  came  to  the  surface. 
As  we  caught  hold  of  him  we  saw  that  the  blood  was  streaming 
from  his  nose  and  mouth  and  ears. 

"He's  killed  himself,"  said  Crawford,  "I  thought  he  would." 

We  got  back  to  the  schooner  in  a  moment  and  lifted  Winterstein 
on  board. 

As  I  was  helping  to  carry  him  toward  the  companion  with  his 
head  in  my  hands.  Daisy  caught  hold  of  me : 

"Dead?"  she  cried,  her  eyes  wild  in  the  frozen  face. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  I  replied,  "he  stayed  under  too  long.  We 
must  get  him  downstairs  and  bring  him  to." 

"Ah,"  she  gasped,  and  let  my  arm  go. 

We  carried  Winterstein  down  the  cabin,  turned  him  over  and 
poured  the  water  out  of  him.  Afterwards  I  blew  whiskey  up  his 
nose  and  poured  some  down  his  throat,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he 
revived. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  said,  struggling  to  rise.  "Have  you  got 
her?" 

"It's  no  good.  Skipper,"  cried  Crawford,  holding  him  down. 
"We  did  our  best.  You  did  all  one  man  could.  She  must  have 
gone  straight  down.    There's  not  a  sign  of  her." 

"I  must  find  her,"  he  said,  struggling  up.  But  he  was  too  weak, 
he  fell  back  fainting. 

I  do  not  know  how  the  hours  passed.  I  felt  dazed;  but  with  an 
ache  at  my  heart  and  a  sort  of  vague  dread ;  it  was  all  incredible 
to  me.  I  could  not  believe  that  Rose  was  dead,  drowned,  that  I 
should  never  see  her  again,  that  charming  woman  with  her  ap- 
pealing, affectionate  soul.  It  was  too  awful  to  realize.  I  thought 
I'd  wake  up  and  find  it  all  a  bad  dream.  Suddenly  I  noticed  that 
my  legs  were  cold.  I  put  my  hand  down,  my  trousers  were 
dripping  wet  from  carrying  Winterstein.  The  next  moment  I 
became  r"n'<<-ion':  timt  t  wns  iif-nri  tifcd,  driink  tjred,  my  eyes 


A  Daugutek  of  Evfi  41 


were  dosing  of  themselves.    Instinctively  I  turned  into  the  for'- 
castle,  stretched  myself  on  the  lockers  and  slept.    .    .    . 

When  I  awoke  I  did  not  know  where  I  was :  everything  was 
strange  to  me.  Then  I  remembered,  and  with  the  remembrance 
came  the  iron  band  about  my  chest  constricting  my  heart.  I  got 
up  and  went  on  deck.  No  change  there.  The  schooner  was  just 
drawing  through  the  water,  the  sun  shining;  the  light  dancing  on 
the  wavelets ;  the  air  like  wine.  Dyer  was  at  the  helm.  If  only 
last  night  could  have  been  blotted  out?  I  could  scarcely  believe 
it  was  real.  As  I  went  aft,  Crawford  met  me : 
"How's  Winterstein?"  I  asked. 

"Sleeping  now,"  he  replied,  "but  he's  been  mighty  bad.  I  never 
saw  a  man  so  done  up — never.  How  did  it  happen?  How  did 
h/is  wife  go  overboard?  You  saw  it,"  and  his  eyes  probed  mine. 
"She  came  out  of  the  companion,"  I  said,  "the  deck  was  on  a 
bit  of  a  slant  ...  it  all  happened  so  quickly."  I  felt  myself 
flushing.    I  was  angry  with  my  hesitation. 

"But  why  did  she?  How  did  she  sink  like  that? — it's  mighty 
curious,"  he  added  suspiciously. 

"Have  you  seen  Miss  Daisy?"  I  asked  to  change  the  current  of 
his  thought. 

"Miss  Daisy,"  he  repeated,  emflliasing  the  Miss,  so  that  I  noticed 
how  strange  it  was  for  me  to  use  the  formal  courtesy,  "Miss  Daisy 
ain't  been  up  yet.  The  nigger  thinks  'twas  jealousy  between  the 
two  sister;  but  he  saw  nothing.    You  must  have  seen." 

I  had  time  to  recover  myself,  and  choose  a  better  way  of  putting 
him  off  the  scent : 

"It's  awful,  awful;"  I  said,  as  if  to  myself.  I  can't  understand 
it."     Crawford  grunted,  still  suspicious. 

But  in  spite  of  the  tragedy,  the  suspicions,  and  the  dark  cloud 
of  fear  that  hung  over  me  as  to  what  might  happen  next,  the 
ordinary  routine  of  life  went  on — luckily  for  all  of  us.  A  little 
after  Abe  called  to  me  from  the  for'castle  to  come  and  have  a 
cup  of  coffee.  I  found  I  was  very  hungry  and  after  breakfast 
felt  much  better,  more  hopeful  I  mean  and  fitter  to  meet  what- 
ever might  occur. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Crawford  was  at  the  helm  steering.  I  was 
standing  near  the  foremast  when  suddenly  Daisy  came  out  of  the 
companion  and  spoke  to  Crawford  in  passing.  He  replied  in  a 
monosyllable,  without  the  usual  greeting,  and  then  stared  up  at 
the  mainsail  as  if  there  was  nothing'  more  to  be  said.  The  in- 
stinctive Puritanism  of  the  race  spoke  in  his  awkward  rude  rebuff. 
I  saw  the  color  flood  her  cheeks  and  then  ebb  away.  I  loathed 
the  man ;  I  could  have  beaten  him  for  his  incolence ;  yet  I  was 
glad  he  had  insulted  her:  why?  She  deserved  it  all  and  more, 
I  thought  hotly — and  yet — she  walked  up  the  slanting  deck,  her 
little  figure  thrown  back  proudly.  I  crossed  the  windward  be- 
tween the  masts  to  cut  her  off:  why?  I  don't  know.  I  only 
know  that  passion  was  in  me ;  she  seemed  so  far  away  from  us 
all  with  that  level,  unseeing,  unwavering  glance;  the  proud  aloof- 
ness attracted  mc.    I  had  never  before  understood  the  fascination 


4i2  Fbank  Habbis 


of  her  personality,  of  her  courage.  When  we  met  she  stopped 
and  her  eyes  held  me. 

"I  know  you  never  meant  it,  Daisy,"  I  said  tamely  and  held 
out  both  my  hands  to  her. 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  replied,  her  eyes  searching  hard.  The 
words  shocked  me.  I  did  not  realize  that  having  just  been  in- 
sulted, she  was  all  mistrust  and  temper ;  if  only  I  had  said  the 
right  word ;  but  her  pride  angered  me  and  for  the  moment  I  took 
her  question  that  may  have  only  been  doubt  of  me  for  an  admis- 
sion of  guilt.     Fool  that  I  was. 

"God,"  I  exclaimed  violently  and  stepped  back.  Her  face 
hardened  and  she  swept  past  me  without  another  word  or  look, 
leaving  me  there  confused,  angry,  wild,  and  back  of  all  full  of 
forgiveness — of  admiration. 

I  could  not  but  dread  the  first  meeting  with  Winterstein.  What 
would  he  say,  how  would  he  take  it  all?  I  had  not  much  time  to 
let  imagination  wander.  As  I  turned  in  my  walk,  he  was  there. 
His  appearance  was  shocking;  it  wasn't  only  that  he  was  white 
and  seemed  ill ;  his  clothes  hung  on  him ;  he  was  shrunken  and 
his  eyes  were  bad  to  look  upon — despairing — sad  at  one  moment, 
the  next  hot  in  self-anger  and  exasperation. 

I  went  to  him  at  once,  my  heart  full  of  pity.  I  saw  he  was  all 
broken. 

"I'm  glad  you're  up,"  I  cried  cordially;  "the  air'll  do  you 
good." 

He  looked  at  me  with  such  dumb  misery  in  the  glance  that  my 
eyes  pricked :  he  nodded  his  head  once  or  twice  and  then  went 
over  to  the  low  poop  and  sat  down. 

A  little  later  Dyer  went  to  him  and  said  breakfast  was  ready. 
He  shook  his  head  merely  and  sat  on  gazing  moodily  at  the 
water. 

The  samei  thing  happened  at  dinner-time,  but  when  pressed  to 
eat  by  Crawford  he  replied,  "'twould  choke  me.    I'm  all  right." 

The  sweet  old  routine  of  life  had  done  me  good  so  I  thought 
it  would  do  good  to  everyone  and  should  be  kept  up ;  accordingly 
I  went  to  dinner  in  the  cabin  as  usual.  As  Daisy  did  not  appear 
I  knocked  at  the  stateroom  and  asked  her  to  come.  A  minute 
or  so  later  she  entered  quietly,  but  she  hardly  ate  anything  and 
spoke  not  at  all.    At  supper  it  was  the  same  thing. 

Winterstein  sat  on  the  poop  till  far  into  the  night.  When 
Crawford  came  on  watch,  I  took  Winterstein  below :  he  said 
merely,  "I  shan't  sleep,"  but  threw  himself  on  the  cabin  sofa 
without  undressing. 

The  next  day  passed  in  the  same  way,  but  before  dinner  Craw- 
ford told  me  that  he  could  not  get  Winterstein  to  take  anything. 

"If  he  doesn't  eat,  he'll  go  crazy,"  he  said.  "He's  just  eatin' 
himself." 

I  told  this  to  Daisy.    She  looked  at  me  with  set  face. 

"I  have  no  influence,"  she  said  slowly,  as  if  speaking  to  herself, 
"no  influence,  but  I'll  try."  Her  face  went  rigid  as  she  spoke. 
I    nodded    and   went    with    her    up   the    companion    ladder.     But 


A  Daughter  of  Eve 


4.< 


Winterstein  didn't  yield  at  first  to  her  asking;  he  shook  his  head, 
merely  saying,  "I  can't." 

"The  soup  will  help  you,"  she  said,  and  then  slowly,  "Rose 
would  wish  you  to  take  it !" 

"O,  God!"  he  cried  starting  up  and  stretching  out  his  arms, 
as  if  he  couldn't  bear  to  hear  the  name — and  then  sank  down 
again.  She  put  the  cup  in  his  hands  and  he  took  it  and  drank, 
and  then  relapsed  again  into  his  moody  brooding  silence. 

When  she  returned  she  went  straight  to  her  cabin  and  so  an- 
other day  went  by. 

The  ne.xt  day  Winterstein  took  some  soup  I  brought  him.  In 
the  evening  Crawford  proposed  to  return  at  once  to  'Frisco. 

"I  don't  like  his  looks,"  he  said ;  'he's  worrying  himself  crazy 
and  I  guess  the  sooner  we  all  get  away  from  each  other  the  better; 
perhaps  we'll  be  able  to  forget  the  whole  darned  thing  then  and 
live  again." 

Donkin  agreed  with  him,  and  so  did  I  and  the  ship's  course 
was  altered. 

Daisy  got  into  the  way  of  walking  the  deck  with  Donkin.  He 
adored  the  very  planks  she  trod  on  and  perhaps  that  touched  her. 
Anyway,  she  was  with  him  now  more  than  with  any  of  us.  It 
made  me  angry  and  scornful,  kept  my  zealousy  alive,  prevented 
me  from  understanding  her  or  forgiving — I  always  saw  the  two 
heads  together  and  the  fatal  kiss. 


In  this  puzzling  world  mistakes  or  blunders  often  have  worse 
results  than  crimes.  The  momentary  yielding  to  passion  brought 
the  tragedy  and  the  first  tragedy  inevitably  drew  on  another. 

We  had  got  into  the  I^quatorial  Current  and  were  making  fine 
time  up  the  coast  toward  'Frisco.  The  weather  was  just  what 
sailors  like:  a  fair  wind  perfectly  steady  day  after  day;  bright 
skies,  and  blue  seas  with  scarcely  a  white  horse  to  be  seen.  We 
did  not  alter  the  set  of  the  canvas  for  days  together:  there  was 
nothing  for  us  to  do.  Unfortunately  nothing  to  take  our  minds 
off  the  tragedy,  nothing  to  change  the  feeling  of  misery  and 
apprehension.  I  never  passed  such  miserable  days :  they  seem 
like  a  nightmare  to  me  still. 

One  morning  I  heard  a  row  on  deck  and  then  what  sounded 
like  a  shot.  I  threw  a  coat  on  and  ran  quickly  up  the  companion. 
To  my  astonishment  there  was  no  one  steering,  the  helm  was 
lashed  amidship.  I  heard  a  shout  from  overhead  and  saw  Donkin 
and  Crawford  in  the  main-rigging  near  the  heel  of  the  top-mast. 
The  next  moment  I  noticed  Winterstein  seated  on  deck  between 
the  two  masts.  He  was  playing  with  a  dead  snapper  making  be- 
lieve that  it  was  about  to  bite  him,  drawing  his  hand  away  quickly 
from  the  dead  mouth  with  a  cackle  of  amusement. 

"Good  God!"  I  wondered,  "what's  the  matter?"  As  I  went 
toward  him-  it  suddenly  came  to  me :  "He's  mad,"  I  said  to  my- 
self.   I  was  all  broken  up  with  pity. 

The  men  in  the  rigging  shouted,  "Look  out,"  just  in  time  to 
put  me  on  my  guard :  for  Winterstein  had  a  revolver  beside  him. 


44  Fkank  Hakkis 


and  as  soon  as  I  came  within  his  line  of  vision  he  took  up  the 
gun  and  leveled  it  at  me  crying: 

"There's  another  of  'em,"  and  fired  without  more  ado. 

I  called  out  to  him  and  backed  away,  but  as  he  was  preparing 
to  fire  again,  I  slid  across  the  deck  to  the  lee  rigging  and  went 
up  as  fast  as  I  could.  Neither  Donkin  nor  Crawford  had  any- 
thing new  to  tell  me,  except  that  Crawford  had  been  slightly 
wounded  by  the  first  shot  Winterstein  had  fired  at  him.  It  had 
just  touched  the  right  shoulder. 

"It  burns  a  bit,"  he  said,  "though  it's  not  much  more  than  skin 
deep." 

The  nigger  and  Dyer,  it  appeared,  had  both  fled  to  the  for'- 
castle.  We  quickly  resolved  that  the  moment  Winterstein  went 
down  below,  one  of  us  should  seize  him  and  the  others  tie  him  up 

"If  I  could  only  get  him  away  from  his  gun,"  said  Donkin,  "I'd 
find  out  in  five  minutes  whether  he's  as  strong  as  he  thinks 
himself." 

"You'll  find  out  how  strong  he  is  soon  enough,"  I  replied.  "He's 
about  the  best  man  with  his  hands  I  ever  saw.  It  will  be  all  the 
three  of  us  can  do  to  get  the  better  of  him." 

"I've  never  seen  the  man  yet,"  said  Donkin  sturdily,  "I  was 
afraid  of." 

The  trial  came  very  soon.  Of  a  sudden  Winterstein  stood  up, 
threw  the  dogfish  overboard  and  leaving  his  revolver  on  deck 
walked  quickly  aft,  and  disappeared  down  the  companion.  The 
next  moment  we  slid  down  to  the  deck,  Crawford  arming  himself 
with  an  iron  belaying  pin,  a  fearsome  club  at  close  quarters.  I 
crept  stealthily  along  the  weather  bulwarks  to  the  companion  and 
Donkin  strode  boldly  down  the  deck.  I  think  it  must  have  been 
Donkin's  heavy  step  that  Winterstein  heard;  for  just  before  I  got 
to  the  companion  he  passed  up  it  like  a  flash  and  stood  facing  him. 

"Ho !  Ho  1"  he  cried,  laughing,  "Mr.  Donkin  wants  some  gruel, 
does  he?  Take  it,  take  it  then,"  and  jumping  in  as  lightly  as  a 
ballet  dancer,  he  struck  out  right  and  left.  His  left  caught  Donkin 
in  the  face  and  the  blood  spurted  as  if  the  man  had  been  hit  with 
a  hammer,  the  second  blow  caught  him  on  the  neck  and  hurled 
him  down. 

"Ho!  Ho!"  cried  the  madman  again,  dancing  about  so  as  to 
face  Crawford. 

"Crawford  wants  some,  too." 
•  Fortunately  for  Crawford,  Dookin  was  a  very  strong-  man,  and 
scarcely  had  he  been  knocked  down  when  he  picked  himself  up 
again.  He  was  angry,  too,  and  his  anger  did  him.no  good.  With 
his  head  down  like  a  bull  he  rushed  at  the  skipper.  Winterstein 
side-stepped  him  to  windward  and  as  he  passed  caught  him  a  left- 
handed  shot  under  the  ear  with  such  force  that  Donkin  seemed 
to  touch  nothing  till  he  crashed  into  the  lee  bulwarks  and  lay 
there  quiet  enough.  My  chance  had  come :  Winterstein  was 
a  yard  of  me.  As  he  struck  Donkin  I  threw  my  arms  about  his 
waist  from  behind,  pinning  his  right  arm  to  his  side.  At  the  same 
time  with  the  instinct  of  the  wrestler  I  lifted  him  from  the  deck 
fo  as  to  make  him  as  helpless  as  possible-     For  a  moment  he 


A  Daughter  of  Kve  45 


struggled  wildly,  roaring  like  a  bull;  then  in  a  second  broke  my 
grip  and  got  his  right  hand  free.  But  I  still  held  him  and  as  I  was 
well  behind  him  he  could  not  get  at  me  easily.  But  he  was  too 
strong.  The  next  moment  his  right  hand  had  caught  my  collar 
and  shifted  to  my  neck  and  ear,  and  I  felt  myself  being  dragged 
round.  I  knew  that  the  struggle  could  only  last  a  second  or  two, 
and  just  as  I  was  expecting  his  blow  I  heard  a  thud;  the  writhing 
form  in  my  arms  grew  still  and  heavy  and  slid  down  on  the  deck. 
Crawford  had  run  across  and  struck  Winterstein  on  the  temple 
with  the  iron  belaying  pin.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  Dyer 
and  Abraham  Lincoln  ran  up  on  deck.  We  hauled  Donkin  up 
out  of  the  lee  scuppers  and  told  Dyer  to  throw  water  over  him. 
We  then  wiped  Winterstein's  bleeding  head  and  carried  him  down 
below  to  his  berth,  where  we  tied  his  hands  and  feet.  Just  after 
we  had  laid  him  out,  Daisy  came  out  of  her  little  stateroom.  She 
looked  at  us  and  in  a  phrase  or  two  Crawford  flung  the  tragedy 
at  her.  She  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  man.  She  came  straight 
to  Winterstein. 

"Leave  him  to  me;"  she  said  imperiously  kneeling  down  beside 
him.  *  *  * 

The  second  tragedy  seemed  to  fall  on  numbed  sense.  I  scarcely 
remember  any  sequence  of  time  in  what  occured  afterwards.  I 
knew  it  soon  came  on  to  blow,  but  whether  it  was  that  day  or 
the  next  or  later,  I  could  not  tell.  I  remembered  that  Winter- 
stein appeared  on  deck  again  and  sat  in  his  old  place  on  the  poop 
gazing  out  over  the  sea.  His  madness  seemed  to  have  left  him,  but 
his  brooding  silence  now  was  often  broken  by  periods  during  which 
he  moved  about  muttering  to  himself  incessantly.  Crawford  said 
he  was  talking  of  his  wife  or  to  her.  He  was  tragic,  terrible —  a 
figure  of  despair.  *  *  * 

We  had  altered  our  course  again  and  were  steering  Nor'west. 
The  Nor'east  wind  had  grown  to  a  gale,  while  the  current  was 
running  strong  under  our  feet.  Between  the  tide  and  the  wind 
the  sea  grew  into  hillocks  and  hills  and  still  it  blew  harder  and 
harder.    ... 

Long  ago  we  had  taken  all  the  sails  off  her,  leaving  only  a 
storm  jib  and  a  rag  of  tarpaulin  in  the  mainmast  rigging  aft,  and 
under  these  two  handkerchiefs  the  schooner  lay  over  so  that  her 
masts  were  near  the  water. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Crawford  asked  me  to  keep  a  sharp 
lookout. 

'"Frisco?"  I  asked,  and  he  nodded. 

I  never  was  so  glad  of  anything  in  my  life,  the  band  round 
my  chest  seemed  to  loosen. 

The  sun  was  going  down  in  a  sort  of  yellow  glare.  For  over 
an  hour  or  so  Winterstein  had  been  standing  by  the  tarpaulin 
in  the  mainmast  rigging  staring  over  the  waste  of  water.  I  clawed 
my  way  aft  to  him.  The  tarpaulin  sheltered  us  from  the  fury  of 
the  wind  and  made  an  oasis  of  quiet  in  the  uproar. 

"We'll  soon  be  in  'Frisco!"  I  cried. 

He  looked  at  me  with  unseeing  hopeless  eyes :  my  heart  turned 
to  water.    Suddenly  he  caught  me  by  the  shoulder.  • 


46  Frank  Harris 


"I  can't  stand  it,"  he  said,  as  if  confiding  to  me ;  but  in  a  tone 
so  low  I  could  hardly  hear  him.    "I  can't  stand  it." 

"Time  will  soften  the  pain,"  I  said.  The  words  rang  false 
even  to  me. 

"No,  no,"  he  shook  his  head.  "It  gets  worse.  If  it  had  been 
an  accident,  I  might  have  stood  it :  if  some  one  else  had  done  it, 
perhaps ;  but  I  did  it,  I :  that's  the  thorn  that  festers  and  stings 
and  burns,  and  gets  worse  not  better,  worse  all  the  time.  .  .  . 
I  was  glad  to  go  mad :  I  wish  I  could  go  mad  again  and  not  think 
of  it  all  the  time."  And  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  in 
weary  wretchedness.     .     .     . 

"If  I  hadn't  loved  her  so,  I  might  sleep  now  and  then  and  forget. 
I  never  cared  for  any  other  woman :  she  was  perfect  to  me  from 
the  beginning.  "Hell,"  he  broke  off  raging,  "what  sort  of  a  fool 
was  I — eh  ?  was  there  ever  such  a  fool — a  damned  fool — damned. . . 

"I  don't  know  why  I  did  it:  it  just  took  me  at  the  moment. 
Hell,"  and  his  eyes  were  wild.  "I'm  not  fit  to  live:  this  world's 
no  place  for  fools,"  and  he  laughed  mirthlessly.    .    .    . 

"I  can't  stand  it,  I  just  can't  stand  it!  Oh,  my  sweet:  fancy 
hurting  you !    .    .    . 

"Is  there  any  other  life,  eh?'"  I  could  not  answer — my  heart 
ached  for  him.  "I  never  took  much  stock  in  it ;  but  I'll  soon 
know.  So  long,"  and  he  turned  into  the  force  of  the  wind  and 
strode  aft.  Even  then  I  noticed  that  he  could  walk  the  deck  in 
the  gale  that  seemed  to  blow  my  breath  down  my  throat  and 
choke  me. 

I  clawed  my  way  forward  again.  Winterstein  was  beyond 
my  help.  I  was  glad  of  the  gale  and  the  wild  seas  and  the  danger, 
I  didn't  want  to  think.    I  was  filled  with  fear  and  pain.    .    .    . 

The  wind  came  harder  and  harder.  The  tremendous  weight  of 
it  seemed  to  flatten  the  sea,  and  you  could  only  put  your  head 
above  the  bulwarks  if  you  held  on  with  both  hands. 

All  that  night  Crawford  stuck  to  the  helm  and  it  needed  all  his 
seamanship  to  bring  us  through  the  storm. 

At  twelve  o'clock  we  lifted  the  light  and  a  little  later  we  got 
a  little  under  the  shelter  of  the  land  and  the  sea  was  not  so  bad. 
But  the  bar  gave  us  an  awful  half  hour.  The  little  schooner 
came  out  of  the  broken  water  with  decks  swept  clean :  the  boat 
had  gone  and  all  the  bulwarks,  and  The  Rose  was  leaking  in  a 
dozen  places :  she  would  never  go  to  sea  again. 

When  we  came  to  anchor  off  Meiggs's  wharf  about  three  o'clock, 
we  had  all  had  enough  of  it.  In  spite  of  the  fear  that  the  little 
schooner  might  founder  under  us  and  though  I  was  frozen  cold 
and  wet,  I  went  below  and  slept  without  turning  in.  I  had  not 
had  a  wink  for  two  nights  and  had  eaten  nothing  but  a  biscuit  for 
thirty-six  hours. 

Crawford  woke  me,  bright  sunshine  fell  down  the  hatchway :  as 
soon  as  I  opened  my  eyes,  I  knew  something  was  wrong. 

"What  is  it?"  I  cried. 

"Winterstein  went  overboard  in  the  night,"  he  said,  "I  don't 
know  when,  and  the  girl's  been  in  faint  after  faint.  Donkin's 
going  to  take  her  up  to  the  house.    I  guess  you  had  better  get  up. 


A  Daiohtkr  of  Eve  47 


she  may  want  to  see  you.  But  don't  say  anything  harsh  to  her : 
she's  had  it  bad  enough.    .    .     ." 

I  was  on  deck  in  five  minutes  in  time  to  see  Donkin  bring  Daisy 
out  of  the  companion  and  take  her  across  the  ladder.  He  fairly 
lifted  her  into  the  boat,  and  'as  he  turned  to  row  her  ashore  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face.  It  made  me  gasp :  I  never  saw 
such  a  change,  never.  Her  face  had  gone  quite  small  like  a  little 
child's,  and  as  white  as  if  it  had  been  made  out  of  snow.     .    .     . 

I  could  not  stop  on  board  the  schooner;  I  guess  everybody  left 
it  as  soon  as  he  could.  I  came  East  the  same  week  and  never 
saw  any  of  *em  again. 

*  *  !i: 

A  pretty  bad  story,  ain't  it?  A  brute  of  a  story.  Just  like  life. 
No  meaning  in  it :  the  punishment  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
sin.  Sometimes  it's  like  that.  Sometimes  things  a  thousand 
times  worse  go  unpunished  and  then  for  a  little  mistake  or  slip, 
tragedy  piles  itself  on  tragedy.  There  ain't  no  meaning  in  it, 
no  sense.  I  don't  believe  there's  any  purpose  either,  anywhere ; 
it's  just  chance. 

The  Judge  broke  off. 

The  dreadful  story  had  held  us ;  now  some  of  the  men  stretched 
themselves,  lit  cigars,  or  took  drinks,  but  no  one  spoke  for  quite 
a  while. 

Suddenly  Charlie  Railton  said : 

"That  Daisy  was  a  wild  piece,  sure;  but  I  thought  you  were 
going  to  tell  us  something  about  Mrs.  Amory,  Judge.  I  thought 
perhaps  you  knew  her." 

"I  knew  a  good  deal  about  her,"  replied  Barnett  quietly,  "though 
I  never  met  her.  I  was  mixed  up  in  her  affairs  after  her  husband 
died.  I  was  agent  for  the  land  she  bought  for  almshouses.  I  let 
her  have  it  cheaper  because  of  the  object." 

"I  ought  to  have  met  her  a  dozen  times,  but  I  never  did,  strange 
to  say.  Of  course  I  knew  all  about  her  for  the  last  two  or  three 
years.  I  knew  she  was  a  mighty  good  woma^i.  Her  lawyer.  Hutch- 
ins,  whom  I  knew  well,  always  said  so,  said  she  was  the  best 
woman  he  ever  saw,  and  one  of  the  kindest.  Amory  just  wor- 
shiped her,  I  believe,  and  she  brought  up  his  daughters  by  his 
first  wife  splendidly.  She  had  only  one  child  of  her  own  and  it 
died.  It  nearly  killed  her,  Hutchins  said.  A  mighty  good 
woman,  and  I  ought  to  have  met  her  a  dozen  times,  but  it  never 
happened  so.  ' .    .    . 

"When  she  died  Hutchins  insisted  that  I  should  go  to  the 
funeral.  You  know  the  house.  I  guess  it's  one  of  the  finest  in 
the  States.  They  laid  her  out  in  the  music-room.  It  looks  like 
a  church  with  its  high  painted  windows  and  old  tapestries  and 
open  timber  roof :  the  paintings  are  all  masterpieces :  three  or  four 
Rembrandts,  I  believe.  Well,  they  did  the  room  up  as  a  chapelle 
ardente— and  laid  her  out  there  in  state,  and  all  Philadelphia 
went  to  visit  and  a  good-many  of  her  girls  cried  over  her.  I  went 
with  Hutchins  and  nothing  would  do  but  he  would  have  me  go 
right  up  to  the  coffin.  The  moment  I  looked  at  her,  the  moment 
I  saw  her  face,  the  little  face  no  bigger  than  your  hand,  all  frozen 


48  t'RANK  Harris 


white;  I  knew  her.  That  was  the  face  I  had  seen  in  the  boat 
when  Donkin  rowed  her  ashore  thirty  years  before,  'Jezebel's 
daughter,'  I  used  to  call  her  to  myself.     .     .     . 

"I  was  just  struck  dumb,  but  I  knew  that  was  why  I  had  never 
met  her.  She  had  not  wanted  to  meet  me.  I  was  a  bit  surprised 
when  two  or  three  days  later  I  had  a  letter  from  her.  Hutchins 
had  to  read  the  will  and  in  it  he  found  a  letter  addressed  to  me. 
I  have  not  got  it  by  me,  but  I  can  tell  you  some  of  what  was  in 
it;  she  had  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  it.  I  was  wrong  to  judge 
her  as  I  did  at  the  time.  Young  people  are  mighty  severe  in  their 
judgings.    As  you  get  older  you  get  more  tolerant.     .     .     . 

"With  the  letter  there  was  a  little  box,  and  in  the  box  a  string 
of  black  pearls,  the  same  I  had  given  her  sister.  Mrs.  Amory 
began  by  telling  me  that  she  had  wanted  to  give  them  back  to  me, 
as  soon  as  Donkin  had  told  her  they  were  mine,  but  all  trace  of 
me  had  been  lost,  and  she  had  never  heard  of  me  again  till  long 
after  her  husband's  death,  when  the  end  was  near.  She  asked 
me  to  give  the  black  pearls  to  my  eldest  daughter  Kate,  and  she 
left  me  a  string  of  white  ones  to  give  to  my  youngest  daughter. 
She  seemed  to  know  all  about  us.  .  .  .  She  told  me  I  had 
always  misjudged  her  and  I  guess  I  had.    .    .    . 

"Winterstein,  it  appeared,  knew  her  first;  used  to  meet  her  at 
the  baths  and  swim  with  her  and  make  up  to  her.  She  thought 
he  was  in  love  with  her,  and  girl-like  gave  him  her  soul ;  made 
him  her  god.  Just  before  she  went  back  to  school  she  brought 
him  home  and  introduced  him  to  her  sister,  thinking  that  through 
her  sister  she  would  keep  in  touch  with  him.  -She  heard  no  more 
till  her  sister  told  her  they  were  married.  She  said  it  drove  her 
nearly  crazy.    ... 

"I  guess  Rose  never  knew  that  Daisy  loved  him,  but  it  was  a 
bad  tangle.  Daisy  did  not  say  that  Rose  knew,  but  she  said  Rose 
ought  to  have  known — anybody  would  have  known.  I  think  she 
was  wrong.  She  was  judging  Rose  by  herself;  she  was  mighty 
quick  and  observant  while  Rose  just  lived  like  a  flower.  Besides 
Rose  would  never  have  wanted  her  on  board  the  schooner  if  she 
had  even  suspected  the  truth.  No;  Rose  acted  in  all  innocence. 
But  Daisy  couldn't  see  that;  she  was  hurt  too  badly  to  judge 
fairly. 

"She  did  not  excuse  herself  in  the  letter.  She  confessed  it  was 
her  wounded  vanity  led  her  to  provoke  Winterstein.  But  she  had 
no  notion  of  anything  worse.  'I  saw  he  admired  me,'  she  said, 
'and  that  pleased  me.'  I  was  hard  and  reckless ;  I  felt  hurt  and 
cheated :  he  was  mine  and  I  could  have  made  a  great  nfen  of  him, 
I  thought.  Oh,  I  was  horribly  to  blame ;  but  he  caught  my  head 
that  night  and  kissed  me  against  my  will.  I  could  not  get  away. 
If  I  had  been  standing  up,  his  lips  should  never  have  touched  mc. 
You  will  believe  me ;  won't  you  ?  and  forgive  me ;  now  that  I  am 

dead?    .    .    .'  .  ,    »  u      t       j 

"I  forgave  her  all  right,"  the  Judge  said,  "or  rather  I  under- 
stood her  and  there  was  nothing  to  forgive.  There  s  Angel  and 
Devil  in  all  of  us,  Charlie,  and  the  Heaven  and  Hell,  too,  is  of 
our  own  making,  it  seems  to  me.     .     .     ." 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 


50  1'kank  Hakkis 


PERSONS  OF  THE  STORY. 

Rebecca  Isaac.    A  brunette  of  seventeen,  very  pretty:  small  ivit/i 

regular    features    and    brilliant    coloring.      David    Isaac's 

daughter. 
David  Isaac.     A   Jew  about  sixty  with   high  narrow  forehead 

and  soft,  indecisive  chin,  gray  hair  and  beard,  a  little  bent. 
Reuben   Levison.     A   bunker,  very  rich.     A   little  shorter  than 

Isaac,  inclined  to  be  stout,  bald.     David  Isaac's  cousin. 
Mrs.  Goldschmidt.    An  old  woman  attending  David  Isaac. 

Rebecca.  So  I  can't  get  the  dress.  Oh,  it's  too  bad.  I've  been 
working  for  a  fortnight  and  have  everything  ready,  and  now  I 
can't  go  to  the  dance.    It's  too  bad.     [Stamps  with  her  rage.] 

Isaac.     But  vy  not,  tear;  you  can  vear  something  else. 

Rebecca.  I've  nothing  to  wear.  My  clothes  are  too  shocking. 
I  never  get  a  new  frock — never. 

Isaac.    I'm  sorry,  tear ;  but  I  can't  get  six  pounds  in  a  moment. 

Rebecca.  A  moment — a  week,  you  mean ;  you  said  a  week  ago 
you'd  try,  try — pooh  ! 

Isaac.  And  I  did  try,  my  tear,  I  did  indeed,  but  I'm  getting 
old  and  I  can't  sell  de  jewelry  like  I  used  and  dey  won't  trust 
me  now  mit  fine  pieces,  only  cheap  shtuff. 

Rebeca.    Oh,  if  I  were  a  man,  if  only  I  were  a  man ! 

Isaac.  Don't  say  dat,  tear!  Vot  would  you  do?  You  are  so 
pretty,  like  an  ainchel,  my  little  girl.  [He  puts  his  hand  caress- 
ingly on  her  shoulders.]  Everything  will  come  right  mit  a  little 
patience. 

Rebecca.  Patience,  that's  what  you  always  say,  patience — I 
hate  the  word.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  see  your  cousin  Reuben? 
[Isaac  shrugs  his  shoulders  despairingly  and  closes  his  eyes  in 
token  that  nothing's  to  be  hoped  from  that  quarter :  the  girl 
goes  on  :] 

Why  not  take  me  to  see  him? 

Isaac.    Vot  could  you  do?    He's  as  old  as  me. 

Rebecca.  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do :  but  I'd  do  anything 
rather  than  rot  away  in  this  hole  like  the  others.  I  hate  the 
Commercial  Road  and  the  flashy  foreigners,  leering  and  sneering. 
I  love  gentleman  like  you  see  in  the  park  on  Sunday,  quiet, 
dignified.  ...  I  hate  common  people  and  poverty.  It's  a 
crime  to  be  poor — a  crime. 

Isaac.  Oh,  my  tear,  don't  say  dat :  I've  alvays  worked  hard, 
alvays.  I  thought  honesty  und  vork  would  make  me  rich,  but 
they  didn't.  I've  alvays  told  my  customers  the  truth,  said  what 
de  tings  cost  or  nearly:  but  the  world  likes  to  be  cheated,  likes 
to  tink  the  false  stones  real 

Rebecca.  And  the  false  stones  are  real.     Oh,  if  I  were  a  man! 

I'd  tell  the  women  the  rings  would  buy  'em  sweethearts  and 
money  and  happiness.  I'd  fool  them  as  they  want  to  be  fooled. 
Why  not?  If  you  don't,  some  one  else  will  and  you'll  get  left, 
that's  all,  stranded,  old,  poor,  despised;  poor — it's  the  only  crime! 

Isaac.     I  was  alvays  too  scrupulous,  alvays  too  honorable,  and 


"Isaac  and  Kkbiccca 


5' 


now  it's  too  late  to  begin  all  over  again.  Besides,  nobody  trusts 
me  now,  dcy  all  know  I'm  poor.  Dey  uiised  to  link  1  vos  rich  and 
a  miser  and  dey  vould  give  me  anyting,  now  dey  know,  dey  don't 
trust  me  no  more,  dey  know  1  am  honest  and  dey  don't  trust  me 

Rebecca.  Why  didn't  you  go  to  your  cousin  and  make  him 
take  you  into  his  bank?  Not  now,  I  mean,  but  when  you  first 
married. 

Isaac.  I  vent  to  him,  but  he  said  I  vos  a  fool  to  marry  a  poor 
girl  vidout  a  penny  of  dot,  and  Rachel  ven  she  heard  it  vos  angry 
and  vould  not  let  me  go  near  him  even  ven  you  vos  born. 

Rebecca.  He  doesn't  know  anything  about  me,,  does  he? 
Nothing?  You're  sure?  .  .  .  Tell  me  about  him?  Is  he  big 
and  strong  and  hard? 

Isaac.  He's  smaller  nor  me,  a  little  shtout,  bald  he  vas  too ; 
but  he  has  a  vay  vid  'im. 

Rebecca.     Is  the  bank  large? 

Isaac.  Oh,  a  great  place  mid  dozens  of  clerks  and  brass  rail- 
ings, and  you  hear  ze  money  singing  all  day  long — ah ! 

Rebecca  [claspt'ug  her  hands].  Oh,  tell  me  all  about  it,  all! 
I  looked  into  a  bank  the  other  day ;  it  was  bare  and  cold,  but  dig- 
nified. Has  he  a  rootn  to  himself?  And  a  man  outside  the  door 
to  stop  people  going  in  ? 

Isaac.  Yes,  on  the  first  floor.  He  is  not  near  the  clerks.  All 
by  himself  upstairs  in  a  great  room,  vid  thick  carpets  and  beauti- 
ful chairs  vid  green  leather,  real  Chippendale  chairs — beautiful. 
And  dere  is  a  room  in  which  you  vait,  mit  all  de  papers,  papers 
in  Cherman,  French  and  English.  And  dere  is  anodder  room 
mit  a  long  table  and  blotting  pads  and  seats  all  about.  Oh,  it  is 
a  great  place ! 

Rebecca.  But  tell  me  about  him?  Is  he  married?  What  is 
his  wife  like?    Has  he  any  children?    Tell  me  all  about  him. 

Isaac.     I  don't  know  anyting,  my  tear,  I've  never  asked. 

Rebecca.  Never  asked!  Oh!  Has  he  a  motor?  Is  his  chauffeur 
in  livery?  Have  you  seen  a  woman  in  it?  Oh,  if  I  had  only  seen 
the  outside  of  it,  I'd  know  if  he  was  married  or  not.  I'd  know 
from  the  chauffeur,  I'd  know  from  the  look  of  the  carriage.  Is 
it  open  or  closed?  Does  it  ever  have  flowers  in  it?  Where  do 
you  keep  your  eyes? 

Isaac.  I've  only  seen  it  outside  de  door.  I've  never  looked 
at  it  except  to  tink  how  fine  it  was  and  how  big. 

Rebecca.    Is  it  big?     How  many  seats  inside? 

Isaac.    I  don't  know. 

Rebecca.  Oh,  my  goodness !  My  goodness !  How  shall  I  get 
away  from  all  this?  How  shall  I?  Can't  you  take  me  to  see 
him? 

Isaac.    How  can  I,  my  tear,  how  can  I  ? 

Rebecca.     When  is  his  birthday? 

Isaac.     His  birthday?     Oh,  soon,  now,  in  July,  the  fift. 

Rebecca.  That's  only  a  fortnight  to  wait  and  then  you  must 
take  me.  I  should  have  a  present  for  him.  I'll  ask  Julia  to 
embroider  some  handherchiefs  with  his  initials,  and  I  U  say  I 
did  them. 


FKAMi  llAUKlh 


Isaac  [adiniriiigly].     You  clever  girl! 

Rebecca.  Now  you  must  go  out  every  day,  father,  tnd  tell  lies 
about  the  jewelry.  What  does  it  matter?  Get  the  girls  to  put  it  on. 
Tell  them  the  rings  make  their  hands  look  pretty,  that  a  necklace 
makes  them  look  rich,  like  fine  ladies.  Say  anything  to  make  me 
enough  money  for  a  new  dress.    I  must  have  a  new  dress. 

Isaac.    I  vill  do  my  best,  but 

Rebecca  [pouti)ig].    But,  but,  always  but 

[Inly :  Isaac  waiting.    Rebecca  dressed  to  go  out.] 

Isaac.  Vy,  you've  got  your  hair  down.  Oh,  it  is  pretty.  You 
do  look  pretty,  but  dat  dress  is  tight.  No?  Veil,  you  know  best. 
But  you've  powdered  your  face.  Not?  Veil,  you  know  best. 
I  like  you  as  you  vos  every  day.  You  look  younger  and  older. 
I  don't  know  vot.    Veil,  veil,  you  know  best. 

Rebecca.     My  hair's  down,  of  course,  I'm  fifteen,  remember. 

Isaac.  He !  he !  Vot  a  girl  it  is  !  You  are  seventeen,  Rebecca 
You  vos  born  on  the  Fourth  of  April,  1887.  Dot's  vy  ve  called 
you  "Jubelee"  for  your  second  name,  dot's  vy. 

Rebecca.  My  second  name's  Judith,  and  I  was  born  in  July,  '90. 
I'm  not  fifteen  yet. 

Isaac.  My  tear,  you  are  mistaken.  You  are  seventeen  years 
past,  I'm  sure. 

Rebecca  [stamping].  You  stupid,  stupid.  I  wonder  mother 
could  stand  you.    7'm  fifteen,  I  tell  you. 

Isaac.  Veil,  veil,  my  dear.  If  you've  made  up  your  mind  I'm 
sure  you're  right.  You  know  best,  just  as  your  mother  vos  alvays 
right.    Alvays  a  master-woman,  a 

Rebecca.  Oh,  come  along.  You'd  prose  away  there  all  day. 
[After  starting.]     What  will  you  say  to  Uncle  Reuben? 

Isaac.  Vy,  vot  you,  told  me.  Dot  I  vant  him  to  know  you,  you 
are  so  pretty — vot? 

Rebecca.    What  age  is  he  exactly?     What  is  he  like? 

Isaac.  He's  my  first  cousin.  He  must  be  over  fifty.  He's 
shtout  and  shtrong.  He's  only  had  to  take  care  of  himself  all 
his  life.     His  father  vos  rich.     But  vot  vill  you  say  to  him? 

Rebecca.  I  don't  know  till  I  see  him.  He's  very  rich,  you 
say,  a  real  millionaire?    An  English  millionaire? 

Isaac.  My  tear,  he's  rich  enough  for  anyting.  He  has  two  or 
tree  million.  A  house  in  Hampstead  like  a  palace,  and  servants 
everywhere.     He  is  de  Reuben   Levison — de  great  banker. 

Rebecca.  And  you  went  to  him  when  mother  was  ill  and  he 
would  not  help  you.     What  did  he  say  then? 

Isaac.  He  said  so  I  make  my  bed  so  I  must  lie  on  it,  and  tings 
like  dat. 

Rebecca.  How  can  men  be  such  brutes?  If  he  had  been  poor 
with  children  of  his  own,  I  could  understand  it.  But  rich  ana 
without  any  one,  I  can't.     He  must  be  hard  like  stone  and  cruel. 

Isaac.  Oh,  no,  my  tear.  But  the  rich  have  to  refuse  to  give 
at  de  beginning  and  de  habit  becomes  second  nature  to  dem. 
Besides,  if  dey  didn't  love  money  more  dan  anyting,  dey'd  never 
get  rich,  never. 


Isaac  and  Rebecca  53 


Rebecca.  Why  didn't  you  get  rich.  Didn't  mother  want  you 
to  get  rich?    Didn't  she  spur  you  on? 

Isaac.  She  loved  me,  and  ve  vos  happy.  I  vos  too  honest.  I 
told  de  truth,  not  lies.  But  ven  I  tink  of  you,  I  am  sorry.  I  solt 
more  this  week  from  lies,  and  it  pleases  everybody  better.  I  told 
the  girls  dey  all  looked  so  sweet  and  beautiful,  as  you  told  me  to. 
Dot's  how  I  got  you  the  dress,  and  it  is  pretty.  But  it's  short, 
do  you  like  it  so  short?     You  are  very  pretty  in  it. 

Rebecca.  I'm  getting  hot.  I'll  have  to  use  my  puff.  Why 
couldn't  we  drive?  Everything  is  against  the  poor — everything. 
.  .  .  You  must  tell  him  I'm  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  Road  and 
not  fifteen  yet. 

Isaac.    But  vy  so  young,  my  tear,  fifteen,  it's  a  child. 

Rebecca.  Julia  Hoppe  said  old  men  all  liked  children.  That's 
why,  if  you  must  know. 

Isaac.    How  clever  you  are,  my  tear. 

Rebecca.    If  you  hated  poverty  like  I  do,  you'd  be  clever. 

[Reuben  Levison's  office.] 

[Reuben  is  seated  at  a  table.    He  looks  at  Isaac  ivith  the  aversion 

Reuben.     What  can  I  do  for  you,  David,  what  do  you  want? 

Reuben.    What  can  I  do  for  you,  David,  what  do  yo  want? 

Isaac.  It's  your  birthday,  Reuben,  and  I've  brought  my  girl  to 
see  you. 

Mr.  Levison.    Your  girl?    What  do  you  mean?    Your  wife? 

Isaac  [hurriedly].  No,  no,  my  wife's  dead.  I  mean  my  little 
child.  She's  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  Road— the  prettiest  in  London, 
and  so  smart  and  clever,  and  she  wants  to  see  you,  Reuben — her 
rich  uncle! 

.Mr.  Levison.  But  I  don't  want  to  see  her,  I've  too  much  to  do, 
and  I  can't  waste  time  on  children.  I'm  busy,  you  must  tell  her 
that. 

Isaac  [tivisling  his  hand  about].  Oh  .Reuben,  I  can't,  I  cant, 
she'll  be  so  disappointed  at  not  seeing  you.  You  can't  refuse.  She 
has  worked  your  initials  on  some  handkerchiefs,  oh,  so  beautifully. 
She  is  the  prettiest  girl  in  all  London,  she  is  like  a  flower. 

Mr.  Levison.    What's  her  name?  What  age  is  she? 

Isaac  [hurriedly].    Her  name's  Rebecca,  she's— she's  grown  up. 

Mr.  Levison.  All  right,  bring  her  in.  I  have  no  time  to  spare. 
I  can  only  give  her  a  moment  or  two.  I  thought  perhaps  you 
wanted  to  see  me  on  some  business. 

Isaac,  Oh,  I'll  bring  her,  I'll  bring  her  at  vonce.  [He  hurries 
out  of  the  roo)n.] 

[A  moment  or  tzvo  after;  Rebecca  comes  in  alone.  Reuben  Levi- 
son looks  at  her,  his  sulky,  annoyed  air  vanishes.  He  gets  up  as 
the  girl  comes  tozvard  him.] 

Mr.  Levison.  Take  a  chair.  Miss  Isaac,  take  a  chair.  [Putting 
one  ready  for  her.]  What  can  I  do  for  you? 

Rebecca  [smiling  saucily].  Tell  me  first  that  the  uncle  is  not 
ashamed  of  his  niece. 


54  Fkank  Habbis 


Mr.  Levison  [a  little  embarrassed,  laughs].  Ashamed,  indeed, 
who  could  be  ashamed  of  so  pretty  a  girl? 

Rebecca  [pouting].  Yet  you've  let  all  these  years  pass  without 
caring  to  know  anything  about  the  pretty  girl. 

■Mr.  Levison.  Now  is  that  fair.  Miss  Rebecca?  How  did  I 
know  that  Miss  Isaac  was  so  pretty?  How  could  I  guess?  1 
thought  you  were  a  child. 

Rebecca  [smiling].  Well,  I  forgive  you  now.  [She  produces 
the  handkerchiefs].  I've  brought  you  something  for  your  birthday. 
But  perhaps,  Mrs.  Levison  won't  like  you  to  use  them.  You  see 
I've  worked  your  initial  on  them.     [She  lays  them  on  the  desk.] 

Mr.  Levison  [laughing].  They're  very  pretty,  and  I'rn  very 
much  obliged.  Of  course  I'll  use  them.  There's  no  Mrs.  Levison 
—you  see  I've  had  no  time  to  get  married ;  now  I'm  too  old, 
too  ugly. 

Rebecca.  No,  indeed  you're  not  ugly.  I  won't  have  you  slander 
yourself.  And  you  don't  look  a  bit  old.  .1  hate  boys,  they're  no 
good.     [She  throws  him  a  long  glance  from  under  her  eyelashes.] 

Mr.  Levison.  [He  gets  up  as  if  drawn  by  a  magnet  and  stands 
over  her.]  I  wish  I  was  young  and  handsome  enough  for  you, 
Rebecca.     May  I  call  you  Rebecca? 

Rebecca.  Of  course  you  rhay.  [Seriously.]  I  don't  care  for 
handsome  men ;  they're  always  thinking  of  themselves.  [Looking 
up  at  him.]     You  look  strong  and  I  love  strength. 

Mr.  Levison.  Oh,  I'm  strong  enough,  but  I'm  old,  little  girl. 
What  age  are  you,  Rebecca?     You  look  half  child,  half  woman. 

Rebecca  [looking  up  at  him].     I'm  fifteen,  nearly. 

.Mr.   Levison    [has   laid   his  hands  on   her  shoulder,   but   now 
draws  them  aivay  quickly].    Only  fifteen,  I  say,  that's  too  young. 
My  God !     I'd  have  thought  you  sixeen  at  least. 
[He  moves  back  from  her,  his  face  a  little  flushed.] 

.Rebecca  [looking  at  him  zvith  eyes  that  drink  him  in].  I  said 
"nearly  fifteen,"  but  I  may  be  nearer  sixteen  .[Archly.]  Mayn't 
I  ?  Don't  you  know  that  all  women  make  themsefves  younger 
than  they  are.     [She  smiles.]     Suppose  I  said  I  was  sixteen  past? 

Mr.  Levison.  [His  face  clears,  and  he  steps  nearer  her,  smiling. 
She  rises.]  But  are  you?  That's  the  point.  [He  lifts  her  chin  in 
his  hand.] 

Rebecca  [burning  her  boats].     Yes,  I'm  over  sixteen. 

Mr.  Levison.    Really? 

Rebecca  [nods  her  head].  I  was  born  in  '87,  I'm  a  Jubilee  girl. 
I'm  just  seventeen,  you  see,  quite  old  already. 

Mr.  Levison.  [Groivn  bold  again,  he  slips  his  arm  round  her 
shoulders.]  I  think  you're  a  witch,  Rebecca,  and  know  ju.st  what 
I  am  thinking  of. 

Rebecca  [looking  up  at  him].    What  are  you  thinking  of? 

Mr.  Levison.  [Their  eyes  meet.]  Of  you,  of  course.  I  think 
you're  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  I've  ever  seen  in  my  life. 

Rebecca  [looking  up  at  him  again].    But  do  you  mean  it? 

Mr.  Levison  [dra'wing  her  to  him].  Om  course  I  mean  it.  au'l 
clever,  too,  if  all  your  father  says  is  true.  By  the  way  [he  draivs 
back  again]  where  is  he? 


m 


Isaac  and  Rebecca  55 


Rebecca   [negligently].     In  the  waiting-room,  I  suppose. 

Mr.  Levison.  [His  eyes  narrow  cunningly].  Why  didn't  he 
come  in  with  you? 

Rebecca  [her  eyebrows  lifted].  I  did  not  want  him  to  come. 
Do  you  want  him? 

Mr.  Levison  lsusf>iciously].    Why  does  he  wait? 

Rebecca.  To  take  me  home  again,  I  suppose :  he  brought  me, 
you  know. 

Mr.  Levison.  Oh,  I  don't  Hke  that,  you  see  I  have  my  business 
to  think  of.  People  may  want  to  see  me  at  any  time.  I'm  really 
very  busy.    I  told  your  father  .so.     [Goes  back  to  his  desk.] 

Rebecca  [biting  her  li/^s].  I'm  sorry.  Do  you  want  me  to  go? 
I'm  sorry. 

Mr.  Lc-i-ison  [recalled  to  full  self-fyossession].  You  .see  I'm 
busy,  my  dear  Miss  Isaac.  I'm  very  busy  and  your  father'Il  get 
tired  waiting. 

Rebecca.  He's  used  to  waiting  for  me.  He's  reading  some  old 
German  paper,-  and  has  forgotten  all  about  poor  little  Rebecca. 

Mr.  Levison  [seating  himself  resolutely  at  his  desk  again  and 
beginning  to- gather  up  some  papers].  It  was  very  kind  of  you 
to  come,  Miss  Rebecca.  A  very  agreeable  surprise,  but  I  don't 
like  to  keep  Isaac  waiting,  and  I'm  really  very  busy  this  morning. 

Rebecca.  Well,  good-bye,  Uncle  [going  toward  him  and  hold- 
ing out  her  hand,  adding  in  a  loiv,  reproachful  voice]  :  You're  not 
angry  with  me  for  coming,  are  you?  I  was  so  eager  to  meet  the 
great  Mr.  Levison.  But  now  I'm  afraid  you're  angry  with  me. 
Mr.  Levison  [gets  up  and  takes  her  hand].  Oh,  no,  I'm  not 
angry.  Rebecca:  you  know  I'm  not  angry.  But — but  I  am  really 
very  busy,  some  other  day,  eh?  You'll  come  again,  eh?  Another 
time — by  yourself,  eh? 

[Their  eyes  meet  again,  and  again  he  flushes  zvhile  putting  his 
other  hand  on  hers.  She  casts  her  eyes  down,  turns  and  ivalks 
quietly  to  the  door.] 

{ 
Mr.  Levison.  [As  she  disappears  he  puffs  out  his  breath.]  My 
God,  she's  pretty,  a  little  devil,  a  little  witch.  But  I  did  right. 
That  old  father's  cunning.  What  did  he  want,  waiting  there? 
Dpwn  at  heel,  as  usual.  How  much  would  he  want?  .  .  . 
Phew !  I  am  hot.  .  .  .  Who  would  have  thought  such  an  old 
Cheap-Jack  would  have  had  such  a  daughter.  I  very  nearly  kissed 
her.  If  I  had,  would  she  have  taken  it?  My  God,  I  believe  she 
would.  What  a  sweet  girl !  But  the  father  outside  the  door. 
Pouf,  it  makes  you  careful.  ...  I  wonder  is  she  sixteen  past 
or  did  she  only  say  it  to  give  me  confidence.  Oh,  she  must  be 
sixteen  or  seventeen.  She's  perfectly  formed,  her  legs  and  breasts, 
yes,  seventeen  she  must  be,  a  perfect  little  witch.  ...  I  wonder 
does  she  know  what  she's  doing?  Sometimes  shehas  such  a  child- 
air,  her  eyes  are  liquid.  Some  girls  are  coquettes  in  the  cradle. 
Whew !  .  .  .  I  must  have  Rubie  in.  Shall  I  give  orders  not  to 
let  them  in  again?  No,  I  won't.  [Rings  bell  on  desk,  the  door 
opens  at  once.    A  sort  of  upper  servant  enters.]     Send  Mr.  Rubie 


S6  Frank  iHaebis 


to  me,  and  I'm  "not  in"  to  Mr.  Isaac  any  more,  you  understand? 
to  Mr.  Isaac;  but  if  Miss  Isaac  calls,  let  her  in. 
Servant.    Yes,  sir. 


Isaac.    Vot  did  he  say,  tear,  vot  did  he  say? 
Rebecca.    Why  did  you  wait?    Let  us  go. 
Isaac.    Was  he  nice?     Did  he — was  he  kind? 
Rebecca  [in  a  hard  voice].    Let  us  go. 

IS  lie  goes  out  with  her  parasol  ready  to  open,  and  flashing  bright 
smiles  to  every  one  she  meets.  Isaac  trots  behind,  but  when  they 
get  into  the  street  he  ranges  up  beside  her.] 

Isaac.    Vot  did  he  say,  my  tear?    I  am  very  anxious. 
■Rebecca  [looking  at  him  with  hard  eyes].     What  was  there  to 
say?     You  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  door.     Why  didn't  you 
go  away? 

Isaac.  Oh,  my  tear.  I  did  whatever  you  vanted.  I  thought 
it  best  to  be  near  you.  If  you  had  called  out  I  vouJd  have  come 
in  at  vonce. 

[Rebecca  looks  at  him  contemptuously.] 

Rebecca.    Come  in?    What  for.     [Puts  her  nose  in  the  air.] 

Isaac  [with  his  irresponsible  optimism  tries  again  and  again  to 
engage  her  in  conversation].  Vot  fine  offices  and  vot  nice  ser- 
vants !  His  man,  dat  man  in  black  came  in  and  spoke  to  me. 
He  remembered  me  from  years  ago.  Reuben's  not  married.  I 
thought  you  vould  like  to  know.  The  man  told  me  he  lived  alone 
at  Hampstead  [Rebecca  looks  at  him  pitiyngly]  and  he  has  two 
motors,  one  closed  for  the  city,  and  an  open  one.  Oh,  he  has 
got  on  tremendeou  ly.  Lords  come  to  him  in  his  office  und  great 
people.  [Rebecca  looks  at  him  reflectively.]  Oh,  1  found  out 
a  lot. 

Rebecca.     You  did.    What  did  you  tell  the  man? 

Isaac.  I  say  where  we  live,  and  he  ask  mc  who  you  were ;  I 
say  my  daughter.  I  am  proud  of  you,  tear.  I  said  I  had  brought 
you  because  you  had  wanted  to  come,  that  you  had  worked  some 
handkerchiefs  for  your  Uncle's  birthday. 

Rebecca  [looks  at  him].     Why  must  you  be  a  fool! 

Isaac.  Fool !  Vy,  he  want  to  know,  and  I  am  proud  of  you, 
so  proud,  Rebecca. 

Rebecca.  Silly.  I  would  ask  everything  and  tell  nothing.  You  ! 
You  chatter,  chatter,  chatter,  so  that  everybody  knows  your 
business.     That's  why  I  say  you're  foolish.     I'd  tell  nothing. 

Isaac.  But,  Rebecca!  why  are  you  angry  mit  me?  I  can  only 
do  my  best.  [Her  face  is  resigned  and  a  little  zueary.]  I  do  all 
I  can  for  you.    I  do  my  best. 

Rebecca  [looks  at  him  and  sums  it  all  up  dispassionately].  Why 
don't  you  go  away  and  leave  me? 

Isaac.    I'm  sorry  I  did  not.    I  thought  I  vould  be  a  help  to  you. 

Rebecca.    Help!    You  can't  help  me;  you  can't  even  help  your- 


Isaac  and  Rebecca 


57 


self.  You  are  what  they  call  unlucky.  [She  shrugs  her  shoulders.] 
Isaac  [drops  his  head].  Dat's  vot  Rachel  used  to  say,  I  vos 
unlucky,  and  perhaps  I  vos.  But  it's  being  too  honest  that  has 
kept  me  down.  To  be  honest  and  truthful  one  should  be  rich — 
I'm  too  good;  the  poor  have  no  right  to  be  honest.     .     .     . 


A  MONTH  LATER 

[Rebecca  comes  into  the  room  dressed  for  going  out.  Isaac 
looks  at  her.] 

Isaac.  Vere  did  you  get  dat  dress?  How  grown  up  you  look! 
Oh,  I  like  you  in  dat  long  dress  best !  It  makes  you  look  taller, 
and  you've  done  your  hair  up,  too.  Vere  are  you  going?  Oh, 
you  are  pretty. 

Rebecca  [looks  an  him  quietly].  I  am  going  for  a  walk.  I 
shall  perhaps  be  out  to  dinner.    Julia  Hoppe  may  give  me  dinner. 

Isaac.  Oh,  you're  going  mit  Julia?  Well,  she  is  nice,  but  a 
little  fast,  my  tear,  isn't  she?     You  vill  be  careful? 

Rebecca.  It's  better  to  be  a  little  fast  than  slow  these  time3. 
[Drawing  on  a  long  glove  as  she  speaks.] 

Isaac.  Vot  splendid  gloves !  You  must  have  paid  six  or  seven 
shilling  for  dem  gloves?    Vere  are  you  going? 

Rebecca  [sharply].  Ask  me  no  questions,  I'll  tell  you  no  lies. 
I'm  going  to  Julia  Hoppe's  if  you  must  know. 

Isaac.  May  I  come?  I  don't  like  you  valking  about  de  streets 
alone. 

Rebecca.  You  may  come  if  you  want  to.  But  you  had  much 
better  go  out  with  the  tray.  It's  stopped  raining  now,  and  this 
dress  is  not  paid  for  yet. 

Isaac.    But  vould  you  like  me  to  come? 

Rebecca.  I  don't  care,  I  think  you  had  better  make  your  round. 
I'm  all  right.  Nothing'll  happen  to  me.  Nothing  ever  docs 
happen  in  this  dull  hole.  Now  don't  worry :  I'll  be  back  soon. 
Nobody'll  run  away  with  me.  [She  goes  out  of  the  door.]  Worse 
luck! 


[Mr.  Levison  seated  in  his  room,  Rebecca  enters  quickly.] 

Mr.  Levison.  How  did  you  get  in?  Who  let  you  in?  Where's 
Lewis  ? 

Rebecca  [zvilh  color  in  cheeks].  Three  questions  in  one  breath: 
I  walked  in,  simply.  No,  no!  [Coming  close  to  him.]  I'll  tell 
the  truth.  I  waited  till  Lewis  went  to  the  lift  with  the  gentleman 
who  just  came  out,  and  then  I  slipped  in.  Are  you  glad  to  see 
me? 

Mr.  Levison  [rises].  I  don't  know.  I'm  glad,  yes.  Who  could 
help  being  glad?  But  I'm  afraid  it's  not  wise.  Where's  your 
father? 

Rebcca.  I  left  him  at  home.  [Taking  a  scat.]  Did  you  wish 
to  see  him? 


58  Fkank  Habkis 


Mr.  Levison  [dryly].    Not  exactly. 

Rebecca.  You  don't  like  him,  but  you're  wrong.  He's  a  good 
sort— too  good,  that's  the  worst  of  him. 

Mr.  Levison  [doubtfully].  Is  he?  I  dare  say.  But  he's  poor, 
and — and  he  always  talks  morality. 

Rebecca.    Talks  morality? 

Mr.  Levison.  Yes,  he  says  he's  poor  because  he's  honest  and 
tells  the  truth,  and  all  that.  That  moral  talk's  frightening:  in 
business  it  always  means  an  extravagantly  high  price.  No  one 
talks  morality  who  does  not  mean  to  get  six  times  as  much  as  the 
thing's  worth ;  at  any  rate  that's  my  experience. 

Rebecca  [laughing  heartily].  How  funnj'  you  are  and  how  in- 
teresting! Every  word  that's  said  then  you  think  has  something 
to  do  with  the  money  people  want  to  get  from  you? 

Mr.  Levison.    Of  course. 

Rebecca.  Poor  Daddy !  You  don't  understand  him.  There's 
no  purpose  in  what  he  says.    He's  really  very  good  and  kind. 

Mr.  Levison.    He  brought  you  here,  didn't  he? 

Rebecca.  N^o.  [Hesitates,  then  boldly.]  I  wanted  to  come. 
I  came  alone. 

Mr.  Levison.  Really?  And  he's  not  waiting  outside  for  you? 
Not  at  the  corner? 

Mr.  Levison  [rising,  but  still  hesitating].  And  you  really  are 
nearly  seventeen,  not  fifteen? 

'Rebecca  [getting  up  gravely,  and  turning  round  so  that  he  can 
sec  her  long  dress].  Now  do  I  look  fifteen?  I  was  born  in  '87, 
I'm  a  Jubilee  girl.  [Sitting  down  again.]  You  must  believe  me. 
Why  my  second  name's  "Jubilee." 

Mr.  Levison.  Is  it?  H'm !  Write  it  down  there,  will  you? 
H'm.     Your  father'll  be  expecting  you  home  soon — to  diimer? 

Rebecca.  No.  I  told  him  I  was  going  to  dine  with  a  girl  friend. 
Miss  Hoppe.     There  now:   [laughing].     Does  that  please  you? 

Mr.  Levison.  That's  right.  Always  tell  me  everything  and 
we'll  get  along  like  a  house  on  fire.  [Goes  over  to  her.]  So  you 
wanted  to  see  me,  eh?  little  girl?  [vS"/it'  looks  up  at  him.]  Would 
you  come  out  to  lunch  with  me,  Rebecca? 

Rebecca  [formally].    I  should  be  very  pleased. 

Mr.  Levison  [flushing  slightly].  You  look  much  better  in  that 
dress,  taller:  Won't  you  stand  up  and  let  me  see? 

[Rebecca  stands  up.] 

Mr.  Levison  [embarrassed].  You  are  pretty!  [Puts  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder  and  draws  her  to  him.]  If  you  were  not  so 
young,  I'd  ask  you  for  a  kiss.  [Slides  his  arm  dozvn  to  her 
waist.]     Would  you  give  me  one,  Rebecca? 

[Rebecca  slowly  lifts  her  eyes  to  his.  Mr.  Levison  kisses  her  on 
the  lips,  he  feels  her  yield  herself.] 

Mr.  Levison  [noisily,  to  get  rid  of  the  significance  of  the  act\. 
There,  now  we  are  friends,  eh?  Oh,  you  are  lovely,  lovely.  [Moves 
away  a  step.]     What  lips  you  have!  we'll  be  great  friends,  won't 


«■ 


Isaac  anu  Uebecca  59 


we?    [Rebecca  nods  and  looks  up  in  his  face.]    Will  you  do  some- 
thing for  me  ? 
Rebecca  [gravely,  like  a  child].    Yes,  I  will. 
Mr.  Levison.     I  want  you  to  go  out  first,  or  my  clerks'll  talk 
and  I  don't  want  'em  to  talk  about  you.    I  like  you  too  much  for 
that.    You  go  out  and  wait  for  me  at  the  next  corner,  the  corner 
of  the  street  leading  to  the  bank,  you  know  the  corner?     [Rebecca 
nods  quickly.]     I'll  come  in   five  minutes  or  so,   do  you  mind 
waiting?    [Rebecca  shakes  her  head  "no"  and  smiles.]     You  don't 
mind.     You're  a  brave  girl.     [She  turns  to  go.    Levison  puts  his 
arms  round  her  from  behind.]   But   first  I  want  a  long  kiss,  a 
real  kiss.     [Rebecca  turns  her  head  round  and  their  lips  meet.    A 
long  pause  during  which  he  kisses  and  caresses  her.]     Now,  run 
along,  Rebecca,  run  along,  my  dear,  I'll  not  be  five  minutes.     [She 
goes  out,  zvhile  he  stands  rooted  in  the  middle  of  the  room.]     She 
is  a  miracle,  that  girl,  a  blooming  miracle !     Seventeen,  and  kiss 
like  that.     She's  everything — clever,  bright,  quiet — and  beautiful. 
[As  if  defending  himself  he  speaks  aloud.]     A  lovely  girl,  any 
man  might  be  proud  of  her — lovely  and  clever.     What  lips,  what 
eyes!     [Going  to  his  desk.]     If  I'm  the  first  she'll  not  repent  it. 
She  really  cares  for  me,  I  do  believe.     How  her  lips  trembled 
and  clung!    My  God,  I'm  hot.    But  does  she  care  for  me?    Or  is 
it  just  my  money?     Well,  what  matter.     Her  kisses  are  just  as 
sweet — perhaps  sweeter.     .     .     .     She's  well  dressed,  her  father 
must  make  something.     She'll  deal  with  him.     She  told  the  truth. 
I  need  not  trouble.     It'll  be  all  right.     She  cares  for  me  a  little 
perhaps.     I  must  hurry.     If  she  waits  there  long  some  fool  of  a 
clerk'll  speak  to  her :  D — n  them !   [Pulls  his  desk  to,  and  looks 
for  his  hat.]    How  lovely  she  is,  what  lips,  what  a  figure.  [  Stands 
before  the  door.]     My  heart's  thumping,  lips  dry.    I  didn't  believe 
I  could  feel  like  this.     I'm  more  excited  than  I  ever  was  in  the 
biggest  deal.    By  God,  this  is  living.     [Goes  out  hastily.] 

A  YEAR  LATER 

[Isaac  is  in  bed.    Mrs.  Goldschmidt  comes  into  the  room.] 

Mrs.  Goldschmidt.    A  gentleman  to  see  you,  Sir. 

Isaac.  To  see  me,  a  gentleman;  I'm  in  bed.  I'm  not  veil.  Vot 
gentleman,  vot's  his  name? 

Mr.  Levison  [entering  the  room].  It's  only  me,  Isaac.  Thought 
I'd  come  to  see  you.  Heard  you  had  a  cold.  Bad  enough  to  keep 
you  in  bed,  is  it? 

Isaac.  Oh,  Mr.  Levison,  this  is  kind.  Yes,  it's  pleurisy  I've  got. 
I  vos  out  in  the  rain,  and  this  doctor  shtuff,  he  no  good. 

Mr.  Levison  [looking  round].  Have  you  no  one  to  wait  on  you 
but  that  old  woman?     Where's  Rebecca? 

Isaac.  She  vent  out  and  has  not  come  back  yet.  Young  tings 
must  go  out. 

Mr.  Levison.     But  didn't  she  come  back  at  three? 

Isaac.  She  generally  comes  back  about  dree  but  I  don't  know 
to-day,  I  vos  sleeping. 


6o  Frank  Habbis 


Mr.  Levison.    When  did  you  awake? 

Isaac.    About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago.     Vot  time  is  .it  now  ? 

Mr.  Levison.  After  nine.  But  don't  you  know  where  she  is? 
'ifou  must  know.  A  self-willed  young  girl  like  that  ought  not 
to  be  out  alone.     You  know  where  she  is,  don't  you? 

Isaac.    Perhaps  I  do. 

Mr.  Levison,    Well,  where? 

Isaac.    Vy  should  I  tell  you? 

Mr.  Levison  [getting  angry^.  Because  I  want  to  know,  and  I 
mean  good  to  her  and  no  one  else  does. 

Isaac.    So  you  say. 

Mr.  Levison.  But  why  don't  you  help  me  when  I  say  I  mean 
good  to  her? 

Isaac.  Vy  should  I  help  you,  Reuben  Levison?  You  took  my 
girl  from  me,  persuaded  her  to  go  out  vid  you.  You  gave  her 
dose  sable  furs,  which  she  says  are  cheap  shtuff.  But  ven  I  vos 
young  I  deal  in  furs  at  Lemburg,  and  I  know.     .     .     . 

Mr.  Levison.  Well,  what's  that  to  you?  You  brought  her  to 
see  me,  didn't  you?  I  didn't  ask  you  to.  You  brought  her  for 
something  ? 

Isaac.  She  vanted  to  go :  she  vos  discontent :  vot  could  I  do  ? 
You  vos  old  and  I  thought  you  might  help  her  like  a  fader :  she's 
so  pretty. 

Mr.  Levison.  Men  don't  feel  like  fathers  to  pretty  girls ;  at 
any  rate,  I  don't.  And  now  she's  got  me.  I  care  for  her  and 
want  her.  If  she'll  only  play  fair  with  me,  I'll  be  good  to  her. 
She's  a  fool  sometimes,  too  self-willed  for  anything.  She's  like 
a  man.  She  just  does  what  she  wants  to  do.  "  Now  will  you 
help  me? 

Isaac  [weakly].    Vot  can  I  do? 

Mr.  Levison.  Does  she  go  out  with  any  one  else,  tell  me?  How 
did  you  guess  the  furs  came  from  me?    You  know  a  lot,  I  expect. 

Isaac.    Perhaps  I  do,  perhaps  I  don't. 

Mr.  Levison.  Surely  you  want  to  hejp  your  daughter  to  get  on, 
don't  you? 

Isaac.  How  do  I  know  dot  I  am  helping  her?  She  told  me 
often  and  often  not  to  interfere. 

Mr.  Levison.  But  you  must  interfere,  man.  You  must  get  her 
to  be  true  to  me.    I'll  give  hei  more  than  anybody  else. 

Isaac.    So  you  say. 

Mr.  Levison.  If  you'll  help  me  all  you  can,  I'll  help  you,  give 
you  an  allowance,  make  it  easy  for  you. 

Isaac.  Vot  can  you  do  more  dan  de  doctors,  and  dey  can't  do 
noting.  My  head  he  ache  and  you  cannot  take  it  away.  I  get  weaker 
every  day,  you  can't  make  me  stronger.  I  vish  I  could  leave 
Rebecca  some  money;  but  I  can't.    .    ,    . 

Mr.  Levison  [shrugs  shoulders].     But,  Isaac,  tell  me     Rebecca 


m 


IkAAC  AJNl)   llEUKCCA  6i 


was  to  have  dined  with  me  to-night.  She  did  not  come.  I  waited 
nearly  an  hour,  and  then  I  motored  here.  Where  has  she  been 
in  the  meantime?     Did  she  come  here  to-day  at  three? 

Isaac.  [The  old  man  tosses  his  head  ii.'eanly  as  if  fatigued.] 
I  don't  know :  I  vos  sleeping. 

Mr.  Levison.  May  I  go  into  her  room  and  look?  It  is  in 
there?    Isn't  it?     [Pointing  to  a  door.] 

Isaac  [lifting  himself  in  bed].  You  must  not,  you  must  not. 
She  vould  leave  me  altogether  den. 

Mr.  Levison  [looks  at  him  angrily  and  shrugs  his  shoulders]. 
Damnation ! 

Isaac  [awakened  again].    Vot  did  you  give  her  besides  furs? 

Mr.  Levison.    Oh,  I  don't  know,  dresses,  whatever  she  wanted. 

Isaac  [nods  his  head].  Did  you  give  her  jewelry — a  golt 
bracelet  ? 

Mr.  Levison.    No,  has  she  one? 

Isaac.    Who  gave  her  de  bracelet?     My  little  girl! 

Mr.  Levison.  A  bracelet!  [He  stands  still.].  Come,  Isaac, 
you  know  more  than  you  say.    Tell  me,  who  gave  it  her? 

Isaac.  I  know  nozing.  I  don't  know  if  she  have  bracelet. 
Rebecca's  all  right.    Vy  you  bozzer  me? 

Mr.  Levison.  My  God,  my  God!  [Taking  a  sudden  resolution, 
sits  down  by  the  bed.]  Look  here,  Isaac.  I'll  marry  her;  I  will, 
by  God !  I  can't  live  without  her.  I'll  marry  her  at  once.  Don't 
you  say  anything  about  what  you  have  to  said  to  me.  But  when 
she  comes  home,  forbid  her  to  go  out  again  in  the  evening.  Be 
firm.  Say  it  is  not  kind  to  you.  She's  got  a  great  affection  for 
you.  Say  it's  wrong  to  leave  you  alone,  and  I'll  marry  her,  by 
God,  I  will.  I  always  intended  to  since  I  knew  I  was  the  first, 
now  my  mind's  made  up. 
Isaac.    Rebecca's  mind,  perhaps  he's  not  made  up. 

Mr.  Levison.  What  do  you  mean,  Isaac?  You  don't  think 
she'll  leave  me  in  the  lurch,  and  marry  some  one  else,  do  you? 
You  don't  mean  to  say  it's  gone  as  far  as  that?  Oh,  my  God, 
my  God!     Who  is  it?    Tell  me?    Do! 

Isaac.    I  know  nozing.    I've  alvays  told  the  trut. 
Mr.  Levison.    All  rot,  that  talk.     You're  damn  cunning.    You 
know  a  great  deal  more  than  you  say.     Why  do  you  think  she 
won't  marry  me? 

Isaac'  I  know  nozing.  I  tink  if  I  vere  a  man  tre  times  her  age, 
like  you,  I'd  marry  her  quick.  All  girls  like  marriage.  You'll 
put  it  off  and  off.     She  say  nozing,  but  she's  very  proud. 

Mr.  Levison.  My  God,  I  believe  you're  right,  I've  been  a  fool. 
She's  everthing  I  want,  pretty,  clever,  and  knows  more  than  any- 
body'd  guess.  Will  you  fix  it  up,  Isaac?  Say  you  want  her  to 
marry  me. 

Isaac.  No,  you  must  do  that.  Why  not  vait  for  her,  and  say 
it  yourself,  or  come  in  de  morning? 


62  Frank  Harris 


Mr.  Levison.  Which  would  be  the  better  day?  One  hardly 
knows  what  to  do  with  her.  She  might  be  angry  if  I  waited,  and 
yet  I  hate  to  go  away.  What  do  you  think,  Isaac?  Should  I 
wait  now,  or  should  I  come  in  the  morning? 

Isaac.    I  tink  to-moorow,  to  morrow  is  anozer  day. 

Mr.  Levison.  Well,  I'll  go  now  and  come  back  to-morrow,  but 
put  in  a  good  word  for  me,  Isaac,  you'll  see  I  can  be  grateful — 
later!     [Goes.} 


[About  midnight.    Rebecca,  in   Russian  sables,   comes  into   her 
father's  room.    I.  c] 

Rebecca.  You  awake,  father?  Mrs.  Goldschniidt's  asleep.  I 
thought  I'd  come  in  and  see  how  you  are. 

Isaac.    I'm  awake,  tear,  I  am  awake,  but  verc  have  you  been? 

Rebecca.     I  have  been  to  the  theater. 

Isaac.    Really  ? 

Rebecca.  Really.  Why  shouldn't  I  tell  you  the  truth?  It's 
too  much  trouble  to  tell  lies. 

Isaac.     Why  didn't  you  go  with  Mr.  Levison  to  dinner? 

Rebecca  [quickly].    Has  he  been  here? 

Isaac.    Yes,  my  tear. 

Rebecca.    Well,  what  did  he  say? 

Isaac.  Oh,  he  say  a  lot  of  tings.  He  vant  to  know  vere  you 
vent.  I  told  him  I  did  not  know.  He  asked  me  vedder  you  vere 
mit  anybody  else?    I  told  him  I  not  know. 

Rebecca.  That  was  right.  I'll  make  Mr.  Levison  pay  for 
prying. 

Isaac.  Oh,  I  vould  not,  Rebecca,  I  vould  not.  He's  a  rich 
man,  and  means  good  to  you.    He  vants  to  marry  you. 

Rebecca.    To  marry  me !     He  didn't  say  so  ? 

Isaac.  He  vill  propose.  Oh,  he's  mad  after  you,  mad.  He  vill 
propose,  he  say  so.     He  vanted  to  vait  for  you  to-night 

Rebecca  [her  eyes  narroming].  Because  I  did  not  meet  him 
once  or  twice.  He  always  wants  to  talk  about  himself  and  I 
want  to  go  the  the  theatres  and  the  opera.  Oh,  the  opera.!  [And 
she  claps  her  hands.}  What  else  did  he  say  to  you,  father?  Tell 
me  everything. 

Isaac.    Oh,  he  said  he  gave  you  the  furs. 

Rebecca.,    But  how  did  he  come  to  say  he'd  marry  me?    What 
made  him  say  that?     He  has  never  said  it  to  me. 
■Isaac  [tvearily}.     I  don't  know.     I  asked  him  did  he  give  you 
ze  golt  bracelet.     He  say  "no,"  and  ask  me  who  give  it  you  ?     I 
say  I  don't  know. 


Isaac;  anu  Uebkcca  63 


Rebecca.  The  bracelet  ?  But  no  one  has  given  me  any  bracelet. 
Why  should  any  one  give  me  a  bracelet? 

Isaac.  \Hc  shrinks.]  Don't  be  angry  mit  me,  Rebecca,  but 
I  saw  you  mit  a  bracelet  vonce  and  I  thought  perhaps  he  had 
given  you  the  bracelet. 

Rebecca  [laughing].  You  amuse  me.  Don't  you  recognize 
your  own  things,  you  silly  Dadda?  I  got  a  chain  from  your  tray, 
from  underneath,  and  plaited  it  round  four  times  into  a  bracelet. 

Isaac  [sitting  up  in  bed,  excited].  Dat's  vot  made  him  mad: 
Dat's  vy  he  vant  to  marry  you :  dat's  vy. 

Rebecca  [nods  head].  .Oh,  you  clever,  clever  Dad!  You  made 
him  jealous.  You  clever  Dad,  who  would  have  thought  you'd 
bring  him  up  to  the  scratch  ? 

Isaac.  I  did  it  not  on  purpose.  It  vos  jest  chance,  or  perhaps 
Gott,  Rebecca,  ze  Gott  of  our  faders  I 

Rebecca.  Anyway,  it's  a  bit  of  all  right.  [Laughs  triumph- 
antly.] I've  always  heard  that  God  helps  those  who  help  them- 
selves. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

FRvANfK  IIAaiiRIS 

Skt  Down  in  Mai.uk 3 — I'J 

A  Dauohter  of  Evk 21^ — 4S 

Isaac  and  Rebecca 49 — 08 


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